This piece is inspired by the springtime season of the shmita year.
We talk about a place where
the wild things are,
as if it were a destination on a map we could travel to.
We converse in the language of languishing and
survive on the language of thriving.
It feels tidy —
and the uncertainty has become predictable.
The sweat will cling to my neck
before I even walk halfway down the block
because this is – soon enough – the sun’s season to reign supreme.
And yet,
there are for corners of the land that will lay fallow
and there are debts within myself that I am looking
to repay.
It’s not enough to let the earth dry out and for us to wander thirsty. It is not as simple as strolling into town and exchanging a credit card
for coffee with ice cubes swimming in there.
Everything has a price,
even summertime.
The wild things are wherever I seek them out.
I make boundaries and then dance within them.
It is the fences that feed my freedom.
One blazing afternoon in this lifetime or the next,
the salt of perspiration at the corners of our eyes,
I will take your hand in mine and
lead you to the corner of this plot of land I have in mind.
It is neither far nor close.
It is both here and also there. We know it well.
We will forgive ourselves for all
that we owe to others and to societal expectations,
and we will be the wild things that we are.
The ground will want for nothing.
We will be satiated and know enough.
We will be
Enough.
