Lately, puddles of freshwater greet me while the sun sneaks glances through the green, green womb I get to call my home-for-now. 

I am spending my summer in an off-grid, one room cabin atop a ridge in the Driftless. There is a sweet land steward who speaks fondly of fairies, dotes on his three cats (& now mine, too), and believes fiercely in the magic of this place. The sunsets are stunning, the birdsong is constant, and the blackcaps are finally, well, blackening.

There is, undoubtedly, a lot to love about this place, and, of course, it sounds more romantic than it actually is. How I landed here has become hazy, and what is keeping me here is even more blurry. This time, though, I am choosing to sap some sweetness out of the scarcity, out of the searching, and even out of the sorrow.

I push the kids on the “secret swing,”,bask in their giggles & watch them fill their T-shirts with early-season gooseberries, rock hard & pucker-sour. I cry into the cat’s fur for nights on end, grieving wounds both fresh & festering. I pull a daily card from an oracle deck I was gifted by a beloved, & apply their messages like the medicine they’re meant to be. I play Scrabble by candlelight on a first date, win handily & kiss them goodbye under the light of the stars.

When I emerge from my cocoon, I am embraced by the community here, even if I can’t quite call this place my community: the Queer potters & pansy tenders who greet me with easy embraces & space to breathe; the new parent who graces me with his laughter beside the creek; the longtime best friend who celebrates my silence & forgives me my trespasses; the Tweedle Dumb to my Tweedle Dee, who makes sure I am rich in laughter & care & biscuits slathered in sorghum butter.

”

This is a truth that feels hard to hold, but it is the one that I’m holding. This time, I am willing to share some of the weight. 

KD HACKWORTHY

When I can’t stand it anymore, I escape Up North. There, I dive off the fishing boat into water not quite deep enough to truly cool me, but refreshes me nonetheless. I play cards with my parents, read poems while they fish, & sip my yearly Sazerac while we nosh on catfish, gumbo, salad scooped straight from the cart. This place is in my bones, and reminds me of my ability to find home in even the least hospitable of places. When I make the 4 ½ hour trek back to Viroqua, I still smell, blessedly, like the lake.

This is not where I thought I’d be just a handful of months ago. This is a truth that feels hard to hold, but it is the one that I’m holding. This time, I am willing to share some of the weight. 

Lately, the rain follows me from place to place, making sure I remember to drink water. Here, the deer’s bed isn’t so far from mine, and the field mouse finally found shelter in the corner of my cooler. When the thunder slows, the cat clambers down the stairs, finds his place in the crook of my arm, reminding me I, too, am worthy of rest.