My interim has an interim. I’m two weeks out from leaving this soon-to-be-baking desert city and I’m spending those two weeks at my Mom’s house. One never wants to go back to Mom’s house. Especially when one imagines themselves to be “real adult”. But given the reality that I am not currently being “mothered” I suppose it’s more of a long visit. I’m visiting Mom. I like who I’ve become since the last time we shared significant space together—10 years ago.
Where I’m headed—Portland, Oregon— had always, until now, seemed like a land of promise to me. Consequently, a lot of broken things were once initially rooted there. Promise is a tricky thought depending on the way you hold it. I guess there’s promise and there’s intention. Promise seems a bit one-dimensional and closed in. A perfect square of a thought about what could happen, bordered by a certain idea of how it might happen. A glass structure in a hard world.
Intention, well, I guess the difference is is the way you hold it. It’s both in and out of my hands. Intention has to be thrown to the wind to be useful. You have to let it go.