Now you know me. I'm about as pragmatic and non woo-woo as they come.
And yet. There is something here.
I feel it. Is it just the deep, deep call of memory?
The funny thing is, is that I feel little of it by my own old house. Maybe the things that happened in that house were just too painful and that it was all of this outside that sustained and nourished me and which calls me back over and over.
I remember laying on the dock and the smell of the sun warmed wood and the sound of the river as it murmured and sang under me. The sudden smack of a jumping mullet. I remember the swish and gossip of the branches of the Austalian Pines as I sat under them. The way the air felt, the sound of these particular crickets. I remember walking in the winter darkness with my mother and brother with a flashlight that never seemed to work very well to go check out books from the tiny selection in the Roseland Garden Community clubhouse.
And always I remember the first time we came through those rusted iron gates and saw the immense empty pool, guarded on each corner by the stone lions, the jungle overtaking it all.
I don't know. I just know that my blood sings and hums with it here.
It pulls me back and back and back again. The river. Oh. The river.
All of it.
I pocketed two Surinam cherries today that I picked from a bush growing in my old best friend's yard. I am going to take home the pits. Plant them in dirt to hopefully grow alongside the mango I've grown from the seed of a fruit that grew on a tree that fed us as feral jungle children here so long ago.
Well. Who knows about these things? Not me. I only know what I feel.
I feel lucky. I feel blessed. I feel at peace.
I feel as if I am living in many worlds all at once.
It is an odd feeling. It is as mysterious as anything I know.
It is time travel and being-here-now, all in one eternal moment and I dream of this place so often. The deep rich muck of it like the muck of the river itself holding tens of thousands of years' worth of secrets in its depths from mastodon bones to arrowheads to pirate treasure to the giant dead trunks of trees and the rotted and decayed bodies of fish and panther of manatee and dugout canoes.
That's enough. I'm typing this out on my phone so forgive me for form if not for content.
Which is all mine and cannot be blamed on anything but the visceral hum of my own heart blood.