The Country of Self

The Country of Self

There is no map.  No sign posts.  No demarcation lines.  No compass with its spinning dial pointing North South East West.  And yet, it is there, this country of self.  This vast expanse of desert we cross on the way to meeting ourselves.  The African plains studded with thorn trees, squat, a bit twisted of limb.  The ones with the spotted owls in them, eyes as big as saucers, hooting the night in and out.  This country where inch worms glow.  Where women walk down Parisian boulevards holding parasols over their heads.  Where coal turns into diamonds.  Soot into smoke.  Wood into ashes.  Where wild horses storm across prairies. Where groundhogs come up searching for spring.  This country is there for us.  This internal landscape of the big and small.  Where, if we are lucky, we stumble upon ourselves and say hello.

Suki 2006