I do not like NEW places. I don’t mean places I’m unfamiliar with, although that is also a struggle for me sometimes. I mean places that are just actually new.

Now, I have nothing against new houses; I wouldn’t mind at all having one of those. In fact I’ve wanted one for most of my adult life. But if I could have one, I would want it built in an old place. I like the smell of newly constructed and painted buildings of other sorts too. I love the fresh unspoiledness inside those places. It is in the outdoors that I hate newness.

I refer to areas that have been recently scraped raw of all nature, then built upon, then little tiny trees planted in strategic places, and squares of sod laid down to begin to allow nature back in a controlled, pre-planned pattern. Being in a place like that makes me feel on edge. It’s creepy.

Give me a piece of earth with big, old trees who grew there because they decided to, and rich, dark dirt that smells good and will grow anything because of generation after generation of leaves falling and decomposing in countless layers. The deeper I dig, the less I see recognizable leaf remains and the more beautiful soil, so deliciously smelly that I want to rub my face in it and breathe it in more deeply. Maybe an old, pretty, antique style fence, grown up with something I need to get out there and trim back before it pulls the fence down. A densely shaded corner where I can plant something that doesn’t need much sun. Or maybe just hang a swing from the huge tree causing the shade. And some sunny spots where I can plant something colorful that wants to be there.

I want to live on a place in nature already in motion and undisturbed for long before my entrance into it, a place that has been busy being and growing and becoming what it will, but happy to have me join, gently, in the process.