On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont

A place in the mud

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july 7 023

There is nothing I have wanted more in this life than to find my place. I have traveled far, living in remote climes doing obscure and sometimes fun things to find it. I have found it here on this plot of land, in this town, with this family. I am never letting it go.

Rain came while weeding and I let the drops cool me as I hacked at things in my way. I unleashed the tomatoes. Set free the hot peppers. Cleared half a row of carrots and beets. Hoe gritty, arms mud-spattered, I watched the rain from inside the barn door. Why should I feel so much comfort in the smell of hay, tractor oil and dirt? I was a girl again at the bottom of my street digging for buried treasure. I was going to be an archeologist. I made special shoes out of dish sponges so I could walk in the rain.

“You can’t think your way to authenticity,” someone once told me.

Resist what doesn’t feel right or true. Wander. Get lost. Get lost some more.

I know who I am when I do that.

A place, a person, a job, a book, an art.

When you find home you know it. And then nothing can tear you away. Ever.


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