Wanderlust

Wanderlust: I don’t know if summer provokes this feeling or just allows for its pursuit.  

In either case, it is time.

We are on the cusp of summer.  She is ringing in my ears, and chiming in my pores, tenderly urging me to freedom.

I wonder where hinged is the door that summer opens, this portal through which the voice of wonder calls.  Come to me.

Jo:

Summer is the season of every possibility, the season that calls us to her.  She is the season that urges us into the world, to remember ourselves, and each other.  We beg summer for more, just a few more moments to linger or play or go or be.  

She is our catalyst; and we her loyal patrons. 

I think there is a tree somewhere that holds the hinges of the door through which the voice calls me.  It is a tree in any forest, or perhaps it is a blade of grass in any field, or a rock at the edge of any stream; certainly it is the ripple in any lake. 

Come to me she calls, and remember.  Tomorrow I am going, we are going, to pursue the hinges and the door they open.  We are not begging yet, but anticipating that which we will want so much more of.

I trust she has something beautiful in-store, just like always.

With gratitude,

Jo