movement through stillness

Signed my name above that thick black line. Free of a lease. I study the form.  6 names.  Andi, Daniel, Bethany, Spencer, Rebecca, and Amelia. And I realize with a small shiver that I am feeling quite sentimental about this.  With our names all in a row, this random selection of various residents, we have put into a legal document the cold hard fact that a chapter has closed. The pages have been turned, all covered in writing, paint, doodles. Whiskey and coffee stains.  Cigarette burns.  Lines crossed out and rewritten in a sloppy sideways fashion.  And the book has turned to lay open, page up, on a clean white sheet. Now being slowly filled in with a doodle of a mountain side dotted with sheep.  Guitar chords and a sharpie drawing of a sunflower.

And what is it that I am talking about?

I am just thinking that I will miss those big echoing hallways.  The sounds of bare feet slapping old wooden steps.  A blue room and breezy sunlight coming in through curtains brushing my face as I sleep away some afternoon or another.  And even when I didn't live there, I did.  And now we've signed away any responsibility to damage done to that house over 4 years, and are free to walk away with a book full of memories and one of the biggest, closest families I've ever known. Bravo 12th and C. 

All this and these, memories of yours and mine, coming at me during a lull.  Like the one between waves.  Ocean waves.  Salt and kelp and that slow soft pounding.  A lull because, I've really been moving a lot in this past year.  Traveled the USA, finished college, saw Mexico, China and now the brakes hit the floor and I am a little dizzy but happy to be here.  I lay around on a big white bed, next to a big wide window, watch the sunrise in those lazy shades of pink of blue and they reflect off walls and window panes and I just smile, roll over, sleep again, easily.  Because, things move slowly here.  Sheep make their way idly down the hillside, to where grass meets water.  Cars putt past spilling the dirt road into the air.  Sailboats sit, waiting for the wind, the sun.  No work for at least two weeks, everyone says.  So we relax.  We drink wine and we play music and we lounge and laugh.  Climb mountainsides and watch the sun make the way across the day.  We wait patiently for that sun to grow warmer, to bring sails to bring tourists to bring us work and the waiting is, perfect.  Is paradise right now in a quiet sleepy town ideal for all this reflection and recognition of these silly sentimental feelings.  

Like being on the beach in Mexico. Working slowly southward day by day.  Time passing as the scenery stayed the same.  I moved, but had the thought that maybe I was still.  And in my blue tent night after night I ran out of books to read and my mind played small tricks on me but I figured as long I put foot in front of foot it would lead somewhere and I HAVE to be moving.  Not keeping still, but moving forward, no matter how much the sky, beach, sand appeared unchanging. At least thats what logic declared. 

And this doesn't make much sense, but the fact is, I am still as can be, sitting on this bed by the window, listening to Abbey play the guitar and then leave to comb her hair.  And we've got nowhere to be.  So we'll stay here.  Yet through all this staying I am feeling an undeniable sense of movement not through time or space but in my mentality to be able to stay, and wait.  

And that is something I am so very happy about.