Labor Day Weekend
Location: Between Terrains
Status: In Transit / Integrating
This Was Not the Summer I Wanted
It began with a rupture.
Not dramatic—but cellular.
The kind that forces adaptation before you can even name it.
I thought this season would offer rest, maybe even celebration.
Instead, it became a slow reckoning.
People I once trusted revealed their distance—not just from me, but from themselves.
Their emotions filed away. Their ethics shelved.
So many choosing comfort over connection, routine over truth.
It was lonely.
Not the kind of lonely that craves company—
the kind that sees too clearly and cannot look away.
And Yet — There Were Moments That Mattered
🔸 A quiet fire with a youth who had just soloed to the tip of Alaska—
returning home changed, but open.
🔸 An older couple who asked nothing of me,
and somehow, in their ease, gave everything.
🔸 A neighbor who saw my weathered spirit
and didn’t flinch or fix—just held the moment.
🔸 A man on the dunes who said,
"Come ride. Let me show you this place the way it’s meant to be felt."
🔸 A new community that sensed my ache
and responded not with urgency, but space.
🔸 A promotion that didn’t ask for performance,
just trust—earned in silence, honored in solitude.
🔸 The terrain itself:
Sand that remembered.
Lakes that asked nothing.
The ocean—always watching.
🔸 An archive built in real time,
because no one else would hold the record.
🔸 Friends who arrived without questions.
They didn’t need my story to care.
They just knew.
And they stayed.
Integration Without Resolution
I didn’t ask for this transformation.
But I also didn’t resist it.
The wound became a lens.
The absence became a compass.
Without fanfare,
without prescription,
these people and places met me where I truly was—
not where I was supposed to be.
And that… was the gift.
Not healing through fixing,
but through witnessing.
Now: The Threshold
It’s Labor Day Weekend.
Summer folds.
I stand on the edge of a new assignment—
this time, next to the ocean.
Where the rains will come.
Where the winds will speak.
Where solitude isn’t punishment, but preparation.
I am not starting over.
I am carrying forward.
And this field record is my marker in the sand.
A line between what has been metabolized,
and what is ready to be built.