I am more comfortable in the cold and wind. The bitter cold that sparks with stillness. I have this strange connection to people born and raised in the north. Margaret Atwood is my favorite author because she is unafraid of the harsh the dark. The barren has a carved beauty and a sad longing smell. People often have an ecosystem of the soul. Mine is dry, desolate, grey, but infinitely open. I don’t have small garden gnomes in my spirit. Neighbors don’t stop by for coffee after church. No one appears on the horizon like the small ants that crawl through my kitchen window. It echoes with a mandolin and violin and often tastes of salty blood drawn through cracked lips.
I love the green and peach tones that warm people carry. A southern disposition or a tropical flair. Sun has warmed them. They are unafraid or unaware of a world where the sun rising doesn’t mean heat. They embrace their passions where northern people give in to them wrenchingly. Tearing aside layers of wool to touch skin on skin. No loud macaw articulations – primal, desperate rumblings. No love spilt or lost. You simply know by the action not the plumage. Uncomfortable with emotion – we try no words for we know that words cannot describe the vast, intensity inside and around us.
