It’s been a bit of time since I left New York City (evicted, but that’s another story). I left in 2001 for Vallejo, California. That’s when I graduated from living in an apartment to dwelling in a house with a little backyard. I haven’t been back very often since then. But I left California too in 2009, (after hooking up with my husband the master gardener, but that’s another story). Arriving in Greenville, South Carolina, I graduated again. We left a backyard bursting with corn, veggies, fruits and berries, to go to a few acres of land that sustain our family. We put in, we get out. I haven’t just moved. I’ve changed too.

Wherever I’ve been I’ve been a writer and spoken word artist, but my perspective about what I do has transformed with my transplantations. Poets like to talk about nature, use nature for metaphors, admire the beauty, mystery and ultimate mastery of nature. But there was a time when this poet was more comfortable at a desk in a room with four walls, and a window from which to observe nature cleanly, safely and comfortably. I didn’t understand back in my apartment living days that my roots were bound in the small pot I was living in.

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