“I loved that place as if it was a part of me, and perhaps, in some ways, it was.”
– Neil Gaiman
I’ve been missing my routines of the northwest summer; hikes on the soft earth of the forest, long walks at low tide agate hunting, picking fruit of every kind and making crumbles, drives in my VW van, fresh herbs from my garden, star gazing on the lawn late at night. This led me to think about the summers I’ve spent in different places I’ve lived. And that led me to write:
A love letter to Vermont
Your cow pastured landscape rolled down into my bewildered twenty-three-year old heart.
I came to you for a weekend and stayed for four years.
I discovered in you a wildness I never knew existed in my small town on Long Island, where I was bound by the Atlantic Ocean on one side, and the madness of Manhattan on the other.
You gave me Wilmington, a town filled with old white wood buildings, and the promise of a before time when life was simpler.
You taught me to chop wood and carry water.
You taught me to love photography, barns, and skiing.
You taught me to lean into the wind and listen to what it said.
You taught me to love unconditionally.
You, the Green Mountain state, set me free,
free to roam in every direction, especially inward.
Your cows ate your grass and gave back cheddar cheese that bit back in its sharpness.
Your maple trees breathed your air,
and gave back a syrup as sweet
as the scent of a rose on a summer day.
You lived by your own rules, and when
the Ku Klux Clan dared to come to town your residents drove them out chanting, “Hate does not grow in the rocky soil of Vermont.”
Our seasons together have been over for a long time.
But I’m a better person for having lived with you, near you, in you.
You hold the bones of the animals I loved, and the woman I used to be.
Sometimes I long to be back with you, long to hold your quiet, gentle beauty in my arms.
You’re still beautiful, still desired, still longed for.
And your simple ways will always call me home.
