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  • In my back forest there are old stumps, relics of logging past.
    The old giants are mossed over but still recognizable, for a while yet.
    The cutting trail is overgrown, now used by deer and adapted by us to walk the ‘back 50’.

    Part of me would like to shrink to the size of a mouse and live there in this mossy and mushroom laden palace, in the woods.
    I would wear shoes made of turkey feathers and birch bark, and sleep on a bed of white pine needles.

    When I am at home the day begins and ends with a woods walk, like punctuation.
    I am at home again physically, but not at home yet mentally.

    I am coming back to myself after this sequence:
    6 months in Boston with 2 weeks ‘shore leave’
    2 trips to New York -1@3 weeks, 1@ 4 days
    2 trips to Gotts Island - @ 4+ days each
    2 week+ long sessions at home in between some of those trips
    Arriving home and leaving the next day for:
    2 weeks in Portland, with 24 hours home in the middle of the 2 weeks

    But now I am ready to keep going.
    “I want to go out west,” I said yesterday morning.
    I really meant it.
    Is this the old American urge to throw it all into a wagon and come what may, head out for the territories?
    Is it a form of seasonal migratory disorder?
    Or is it easier to keep moving than to have deal with the untended chores that are lurking?

    Past experience tells me that after a week at home things will begin to look different and in 3 weeks at home I will have found myself rejoined with my other self.

    This time I am not so sure who that other self will be.
    I have a list of questions for it.

    In the meantime a fragment of the poem: To Althea from Prison
    by Richard Lovelace:

    Stone walls do not a prison make,
    Nor iron bars a cage;
    Minds innocent and quiet take
    That for an hermitage;
    If I have freedom in my love
    And in my soul am free,
    Angels alone, that soar above,
    Enjoy such liberty.
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