I need to remember what I am.

It’s been two months since I left the tiny bubble of Mallorca and tore open my life for anything conceivable to enter. In that time a lot has happened.

I woke up rolling amongst sheets and pillows this morning, my cat stretched out against my back in his feline slumber, a cool summer humidity hanging in the air. Last night I had promised myself to take an early morning walk around the village I call home for the last few days so I step out onto the aged hardwood floor and softly pad barefoot down into the kitchen to make warm lemon water, refill the cat bowl with food and open the back door to the garden.

A whoosh of fresh sticky air from a night of opaque rain infuses the room as I fill the kettle with just enough water for my drink — a supposed energy-saving trick a friend of mine had shown me — and pour some filtered water and then hand-squeeze half a lemon into my thermos mug while I wait to fill the rest with hot water.

Back upstairs with my mug, I wash my face and spray it with lavender hydrosol. The only thing that keeps my sensitive skin from flaring up in protest against the constant climate changes I render it to. A light cov…