​

Bobcat

​

I saw it again.

​

Not in a dream this time.
Not in metaphor.
But once on my screen.
And once, on a tree.

​

Snow pressed into bark like a signature.
A face, watching.
Feline. Lynx. Ilves.
Porvoo had spoken.

​

It was the same spirit that once held my hand at the edge of a threshold —
before the snake bit, before the year unspooled,
before the mirror turned sharp.

​

Back then, Bobcat was the keeper of wisdom.
The quiet one.
The one who knew, but did not instruct.

​

And when transformation demanded more than knowing —
when venom was needed — Bobcat stepped back.
Snake arrived.

​

Now, in the still-white quiet of Porvoo,
on a street with a history no map can fully explain,
Bobcat returned.

​

No introduction.
No agenda.
Just there.

​

This time, I didn’t ask for meaning.
I just noticed.

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____________________________________________

​

The house I’m in — a two-story wooden dwelling —
feels older than its records.

​

Its walls don’t echo.
They hum.

​

There are presences here, too subtle to name.
Not in the way stories get told,
but in the way shoes are left beside the door
by someone who lives in a rhythm just out of sight.

​

I wouldn’t call them gnomes.
But I wouldn’t correct you if you did.

​

Porvoo isn’t a town.
It’s a layered memory.

​

The streets remember feet.
The river remembers grief.
The corners remember what you left behind.

​

Nothing insists.
Everything whispers.

​

That’s why Bobcat came here.
Not to guide.
Not to test.
Just to meet me — where I had become still enough
to be met.

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____________________________________________

​

I’ve built something.
I’m not sure what.

​

A constellation, perhaps.
A quiet field of planets.
Doogood is not a project.
It’s a permission.

​

To sit with silence.
To give €5 to a stranger with no name attached.
To leave a smiley without explanation.
To let joy re-enter the field
without needing to be announced.

​

Bobcat would approve.

​

He doesn’t want to be followed.
But he will walk beside you
if you’re quiet enough.