Every bag needs to be put down eventually. We hope to arrive before then. But with every departure is an imagined arrival.
The hovering, suspended space, the inability to rest, the act of being in- between.
And in the bags? Tools maybe - tokens of the past - or maybe snacks for the road?
Things that make sense to me - specifically me - and therefore I call them mine, and I keep them close at hand - zipped up and attached to me.
Once actively in-between, let me try not to touch the ground too much, or as little as possible. And I want to keep my bags off the ground too. It can be a precarious space, in-between.
Sometimes the decision to depart is made without our choosing, and an island is swallowed up by the sea. Maybe somewhere else an island breaks through the water’s surface.
It’s possible we don’t end up where we imagined.
Our path may look like many small in-betweens dotted between harbors. Or, in a more ultimate sense, just one long in-between and one final destination.
A tree in transit - round root ball bundled in burlap.
Or a miniature planet, home to a single tree - making its slow orbit.
-Lena Takamori, 2021