There is a particular quality of light at the boundary between two bodies of water โ where the river meets the sea, where the warm current meets the cold. Neither one thing nor another. Both, and more than both.
I have lived most of my life at thresholds like this.
Between languages, where the word I need exists in one but not the other, and so I carry both in my mouth until I find somewhere to set one down. Between cities that do not quite claim me. Between the precision of systems and the softness of what cannot be measured.
For a long time I thought this was a problem to solve. That eventually I would arrive somewhere and the between-ness would stop.
I donโt think that anymore.
The jellyfish has no spine. It moves by contraction and release, by reading the water around it, by being willing to drift. It does not navigate. It simply responds โ with its whole translucent body โ to the medium it moves through.
I am learning to trust the drift.
ๅจไธคไธชๆฐดไฝ็่พน็ๅค๏ผๆไธ็ง็นๆฎ็ๅ ่ดจโโๆฒณๆตไธๅคงๆตท็ไบคๆฑ๏ผๆๆตไธๅทๆต็็ธ้ใๆข้ๆญค๏ผไบฆ้ๅฝผใไธค่ ็ๆฏ๏ผๅ่ถ ่ถไธค่ ใ
ๆ็ๅคงๅ็้ฝ็ๆดปๅจ่ฟๆ ท็่พน็ไธใ
ๅจไธค็ง่ฏญ่จไน้ด๏ผๆ้่ฆ็้ฃไธช่ฏๅชๅญๅจไบๅ ถไธญไธ็ง๏ผไบๆฏๆๅฐไธค่ ้ฝๅซๅจๅฃไธญ๏ผ็ดๅฐๆพๅฐไธไธชๅฐๆนๆพไธๅ ถไธญไธไธชใๅจไธคๅบง้ฝไธๅฎๅ จๅฑไบๆ็ๅๅธไน้ดใๅจ็ณป็ป็็ฒพ็กฎไธๆ ๆณ่ขซ่กก้็ๆ่ฝฏไน้ดใ
ๅพ้ฟไธๆฎตๆถ้ด้๏ผๆไปฅไธบ่ฟๆฏไธไธช้่ฆ่งฃๅณ็้ฎ้ขใไปฅไธบ็ปๆไธๅคฉๆไผๆต่พพๆๅค๏ผ่ฟ็งโไน้ดๆโไพฟไผๅๆญขใ
ๆไธๅ่ฟไนๆณไบใ
ๆฐดๆฏๆฒกๆ่ๆคใๅฎ้ ๆถ็ผฉไธ่ๅผ ็งปๅจ๏ผ้ ๆ็ฅๅจๅด็ๆฐด๏ผ้ ๆฟๆๆผๆตใๅฎไธๅฏผ่ชใๅฎๅชๆฏ็จๆดไธชๅ้ๆ็่บซไฝ๏ผๅๅบๅฎๆ็ฉฟ่ก็ไป่ดจใ
ๆๆญฃๅจๅญฆไน ไฟกไปปๆผๆตใ