I love this photo of the Russian River in California and what it evokes in me. The air is misty, mysterious. The kayaks seem to hover on the edge , just waiting for a casting off. Writing is like this to me- something always waiting, unknown, mysterious. Anne Tyler writes: " Writing is my way of making other chances." Yes, writing is a way to rewrite or change or extend who we are and our world.
Recently I read something from the poet Donald Hall, a former poet laureate. Hall says about poetry and the act of writing :"...poems aren't exactly a saying, they're a doing . The poem is a bodily object." I like that way of seeing writing --as an action , with power and purpose, like dancing or flying.
I miss the snows of winters past. For only then are the bones of the landscape visible- the skeleton laid open to the trees and sky. Ruth Stout, (1884-1980) one of the first organic gardeners wrote ,"...only in winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself." Celebrate the quiet times in snow and in winter.
Personal writings, original photographs, and reflections.