Rooted, I used to think.

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Thursday, May. 29, 2014 @ 2:17 pm
Thinking About Me

I have so much to write about.

Riding my bike through the English Gardens in Munich, the light so perfect, the grass long and waving and dappled with flowers.

Laying on the bed one afternoon in Prague, the window open and the curtains blowing in the wind. Music from a piano wafting in, with a woman singing opera. So warm and perfect in that moment, and drifting to sleep, and then waking up later to the woman's voice still resonating from across the street.

Hiking in the Swiss Alps, the sound of the jangling cow bells so comforting. The meadows lush with herbs - so leafy those meadows - not grass but delicate flowering herbs stretching to the horizon.

Driving through Carmague in Provence. Long marsh grasses, pale leggy flamingoes, and the wild white horses calmly grazing across the river delta.

And Paris. Riding my bike on the cobblestone roads in the dark, the river and the lights and everything so quiet compared to the daytime rush. Full of wine and food, and bursts of noise from the corner brasseries.

What else? What else? So much more.

And I emailed Chris, because I couldn't forget about my dreams, leave well enough alone. He replies two days later, so sincere, so thoughtful, I read it over and over, my heart bursting with happiness. Thinking about him sitting up north in camp, writing to me, surrounded by the wasteland of the oil sands, thinking about me.

Roots | Shoots