The tapestry of being self sufficient becomes complex. There, lilac flowers hanging to dry turning deeper purple against the wooden structure that once held corn to dry, I notice a beauty I would have admired while travelling past: now it’s where I am.
Seeing, sitting from an old barn, birds accidentally flying in while buzzing overhead from insects nestling in the wooden ceiling, I know there’s no turning back into a style that I once, and still, longed for.
Every burst of sunlight is an immediate thrust of a lance, straight through my brain and heart and the only decision on such winter days are which way I go. Left or right? It isn’t that difficult, yet with the knowledge that neither left nor right is anything to see, I have to be positive and find something to go to. The cabinet of my brain is filled with connections to forgotten tombs and chapels. I can braid together the multiple forests paths to a maze of sense. Read more
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Cycling Cindy