You know this hibernation carries its risks. You know retreat means retreat into the deep folds that keep you away from the things you fought so hard to reach. I stood staring at the Hudson river today, cracks of ice along syrupy serpetine shores, bright winter sunlight dancing across the snow. Waves of childhood imagination swept across my brow, reminders of how easily fantasy came when I stepped into the woods as a child, how the silence of nature still paints curlicues into the air. I watch movies of New York of old: a reminder that I need to come back - New York needs to come back, there are veins to fill with incessant pulse, whatever we have had lately is not life, we have been back in the folds we were trying to escape.
There's a magic in the peace of January, in letting myself take the slow steps forward and focus only on making it out alive, but it grows old. I pack up the Victorian house at the top of the hill. It is time to return to something that is my own.
It is time to come home.
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