We are something in between, like the whisper of mist hanging over the valley outside my window, floating in the space between the dewed grass and the sky (which can change on a sixpence from so black you feel a pang of fright, to a light blue airy space where swifts dash past so fast you can barely see them). We visited an artist two days ago. As we entered I saw two nests perched above her fuse box balanced so precisely that you felt your footsteps might dislodge them. She keeps them year after year so that her studio is filled with wine glasses, jelly bowls, teacups, each holding a perfect round nest. Feel them she said – they were soft and warm inside, each one made from twigs and hair. They swoop down into the garden when the dog’s asleep and pull the hair from her back, she told us.
We are something in between, my son and I. Between urban and rural. We are trying rural. We both feel a bit displaced. Inside me there’s a space that wants to keep things the same. Impossible of course. My son tells me our bodies change every seven years. Each cell of our body is disposed of and replenished. I will try to embrace this change. I can feel my body adjusting.
somethingsinbetween 