I sit, my mind is empty full of nothing everything thinking of the slow day the work I have not done in the garden, in my writing, anywhere and all things I think about and want to do but get stuck in silly routines of cleaning and playing house and dreaming and dreaming and dreaming. Dreaming of being me alone again, whoever this would be. Wanting to live in the forest of my imagination somewhere far away in a place where the light comes down dappled golden green thru the trees onto a forest floor and the place that is mine is rustic and sparse and clear and I can sit and grow and lean into the sun and just be for a while.

And this is not so far from what I have created around me right now in this city of millions I have carved out a tiny space of green full of simple things that no one else would treasure but in which I see beauty. And this is where I feel safe. I venture out and I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror and I see a different self from the person in my minds eye. Smaller. Messier. Less precise.

And I rush back to this haven place.