A week in Virginia: the ice has crunched and melted, a calf has been born, the sliver of the moon has grown round and will soon eclipse, seeds have been sown+sewn, artifacts found, thoughts lost, art made, time reinvented, friendships begun, stories told, plans laid, stars shrouded, snow tempted, life remembered, horses considered, hope regained. 
It has not been so long (a mere four months) since the last time I left town to make art. East Haddam turned into my muse, or, well, I should say it was the Willies and their secrets hanging in the trees, their shards cracking beneath my footsteps, their headstones staring out too innocently. No, here was the real muse, growing up out of the clearing as if it were a regional plant species, known only to the Devil's Hopyard:
So now I go again, to leave the Broken Land for the rolling hills of Virginia, for two brief winter weeks, and I can only hope there are thousands of trees with millions of branches, and that the wind is crisp. I'm taking no oils for the journey, and only one necklace, The Moon, from my dear boy. Paring down for the winter when winter has already been here and gone. I will arrive to a blank slate, four walls, waiting for something to be created within them. New stories to map, new woods to explore, new spaces to breathe.
It has not been so long (a mere four months) since the last time I left town to make art. East Haddam turned into my muse, or, well, I should say it was the Willies and their secrets hanging in the trees, their shards cracking beneath my footsteps, their headstones staring out too innocently. No, here was the real muse, growing up out of the clearing as if it were a regional plant species, known only to the Devil's Hopyard:
So now I go again, to leave the Broken Land for the rolling hills of Virginia, for two brief winter weeks, and I can only hope there are thousands of trees with millions of branches, and that the wind is crisp. I'm taking no oils for the journey, and only one necklace, The Moon, from my dear boy. Paring down for the winter when winter has already been here and gone. I will arrive to a blank slate, four walls, waiting for something to be created within them. New stories to map, new woods to explore, new spaces to breathe.
