Pocahontas boots

I had it last year, too.

This sense. This strong urge. I dug up my Pocahontas boots from one of the boxes with my winter and other unused clothes. (I didn't name them that. I fell for them and walked around in them for two winters, soaked them in snow once, broke their laces, wore them with skirts and with jeans, walked them into the ILO for a coffee and the friend of my friend said with his sing-song Californian voice look at you and your Pocahontas boots).

I am having it this year.

I am stepping outside at ten at night and drinking in a cold breath of air. I am smelling the turn of tides. I am seeing the stars, I am noticing how lights shine in the cafés, how the people huddle over the bar and flirt with the bar girl. I am being drawn to bookshops and universities. I am hearing that people are finishing the theses they wrote over the summer, I hear they are having goodbye drinks and returning to college or grad school.

Last year, I finished late, I went to Oxford and found a circular bookshop in which to hide. I felt the draw of the tides but I was happy to leave it, to not be part of the academic calender for once.

This year, I am teaching one hour a week. I am taking a baby step back. More importantly, I am kicking my Pocahontas boots around in early gold&red leaves. I am going for runs again, runs that start as runs and become walks and end up with me staring out over the water with new thoughts and more acceptance. I am returning home and drinking tea and listening to stories of what other people do.