July, 4:32 PM or thereabouts

 

pluck from the sky a tangerine suspended in a puddle. oscillations in pale water, clouds

go for a swim across my corneas. i squint, reach up, cradle sun in open palm.

beyond the orchard, oak/maple/birch leaves blur

kinda like my painting palette when i squeezed “light moss” & everywhere:

greengreengreen

smearing paintbrush fibers, the calm wood of my desk

 

same sun different year.

my palm blisters, tangerine blood scalding fingertips.

chlorophyll fades and tears, a memory left to burn on the sidewalk

of a summer day

 

******

Since journeying back to rural Appalachia from suburban Massachusetts in a very sudden manner, I’ve spent a fair bit of time ruminating (read: perhaps *too much* ruminating) over the way the physicality of place impacts my conception of self. I’ve found myself falling into old habits and thoughts leftover from my high school years (note that these are not pleasant leftovers one might heat up as a midnight snack, but rather the crusty spaghetti lining an unwashed plate). Yet I also feel distinctly different than I did pre-College. Namely, I feel rather directionless: the contrast between life at Wellesley and life in the veritable Middle of Nowhere has left my mind in a blurry sort of free-fall, and I’ve found it quite difficult to remember who, exactly, “Lily” is. Or more importantly, who she wants to be. An elegant mixture of nostalgia/regret/wistful melancholy underlies my waking hours (…and occasionally, might I add, my dreaming hours as well…). I’ve mourned the moments I might’ve spent  recognizing the beautiful humanity of those around me — cultivating not only my friendships, but also cultivating a more concrete awareness of self. Now that I’m far more secluded than I have been for the duration of my college career, I’ve realized I’ve forgotten how to exist by myself. I crave the physicality not of Wellesley’s campus, but rather the humanity that graces its tree-speckled acreage. A warm embrace post-dinner, a casual touch of the shoulder on the way to class. I long to be perceived, and I long to perceive others.

I’ll admit that — in early June — I balked at the idea of attempting to build meaningful relationships by way of Zoom. How dreadfully unlikely, thought the unknowing Lily, That I’ll genuinely form friendships while staring at blurry icons on a computer screen, my connection lagging and cutting out seemingly at will. Clearly, I underestimated the potency of shared experience and virtual connection. Seeing the faces of my peers made me myself feel more real, more person-like. Listening to their stories and observing their fluctuating Zoom backgrounds transported me from the countryside to a shared space, a space defined — oddly — by the fact of our separation.

I’ve definitely found living at home so suddenly to be unspeakably irksome, draining, and downright confusing. Paulson has offered a reprieve as well as an opportunity to recognize the beauty of my landscape more concretely (how did I ever take all of these trees for granted?!? Unbelievable.)

The gratitude I feel for those involved with the Ecology of Place experience this year is vast: Thank you for being willing to listen as well as share, and thank you for providing purpose to a very Lost Lily.