‘There is nothing else to do but yodel from the edge of courage and claim all of myself and all of my life and trust the freefall and fallout will lead me somewhere alive and true.’
From My Pilgrim’s Heart
There is a space where the world pauses to take breath: between tides, before a storm, at equinox.
That breath marks a turning, the point beyond which everything changes, again.
This morning I am that space.
My whiteboard, six weeks ago marked with weeks, a week ago marked with days, overflowing with tasks, is wiped clean.
The whiteboard is – was – on my mother’s lounge room floor, where I have been sleeping – another pause.
Six weeks between full time work and an American book tour.
There was so very much to do and now there is just one word left on the board: Fargo.
The word came to me recently in a dream.
It was the name of a publication, an old fashioned comic book-like magazine published by me.
Its name was Fargo.
The word is written bold and black on the whiteboard and seems to me a poetic metaphor for the fact I am going very far.
On Thursday, my tide begins to run again, when I board that plane for LA. To catch the train to New Orleans. And from there the train to New York City.
Journeys. Landscapes. People. Crucibles.
Once again I am at the edge of my known world, trusting the freefall will lead me somewhere alive and true.
Intrepid, a few butterflies, I stand alone as I do the farewell rounds of family and friends.
Connected. Distant. Fargo.