[Molly Radio: Walk Me Home, P!nk]
Tuesday, I packed it all up, loaded up the Bronco and headed North.
Several moments of what the hell am I doing and is this real life peppered in amongst singing at the top of my lungs and taking in the moonrise on my way to Framingham, MA (or if you say it backwards: Mahgnimarf), where I fell into the arms of a dear friend. And this is really the first time since leaving my flat last fall that the question of where I might sleep any given night is anything but a given.
I don’t have to be anywhere. I can be anywhere. So how do I decide? Following my internal magnets - and leaning into the pull. This adventure is not about planning - it is about not planning. It’s about trusting that I will know where I’m supposed to go when I’m supposed to know and not a moment before. The ambiguity and the unknown still grabs my chest and my throat. Each time the grip tightens, that’s the next edge: the only one to jump off of - until the next arises.