With the changing seasons, I find myself off balance. Everything in the landscape appears and feels different. Out my window, what was once lush and green lies dormant and windblown. At Dunbarton Oaks, the aster petals fall into the pond, adrift.
Writing becomes a way to find the balance again with the landscapes, outer ones and ones that lie inward.
Whether writing about imbalance and loss or delving into of what is here and now and what is to come, I can make sense of my world.