Sunday, July 31, 2011

The size of it. This time last year we were in Culebra—and I still think of walks there, and the people I talked to in the town, and the fish in the reef off Luis Pena--and the ferry, and the sound of bachata that is so sweet and filled with longing and blind confidence. And how nothing seemed to be going right. And trying to plan. And in a year a lot has changed. Here we are—now—launched to this place in North Carolina, and the people I talk to, who I would never meet if I lived a life I controlled (like the man with the lopsided body in the swimming pool who tells me about his autistic daughter), and I think how much I learn this way, how much better it is that I have made the choice to let go of things, which, once you start, is a process that is hard to stop. Here in the 100 degree heat, and as usual there’s a job to do. The pieces of a household, things we take for granted on land, like toilets and refrigerators and water. We work around these things, like some kind of nouveax pioneers. Letting go of things, making something new.

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