Listening to the Mary Chapin Carpenter record I bought for Ellen at Christmas, and though it was for her I spin it again and again and wish I was a songwriter. Yet I'll sit instead in my prose, and remember that the reason I love music the way I do is because it gives words and feeling that I'd not otherwise have.
Finding this space as a retreat now, now that it's simply for the words I want so share, the words that I never have when coming from my lips. The words that give light to the mundane, the quotidian, the meat of life. The tiny slivers of light on a linen spread, or the shuffling of socked feet in the long hall, the regular reminders of being alive that permeate every moment of busy and lead up to the larger, significant bursts of insight and inspiration. Abandoning the rules, the expectations, and the worry over followers or partnerships or engagement, I can simply be, and oh, the freedom.
The days are quick now, and spring is arriving, despite the push of northern winds this past week. I've run my fingers across the buds on the rosebush, the forsythia, the silky petals of the crocuses that have pushed their way through the thawing earth. The snow came, and it was little, and somehow, strangely, a reminder that the seasons are shifting.
I've bundled myself to run and my lungs have burned in the icy air and come home to light the stick of incense, letting the stretch on my yoga mat and the heat from the furnace warm my bones and muscles and longed for days of bare shoulders and legs, of packing the coats and wool away for another time. I complain to Ellen between chattering teeth that I'm not meant for winter and these gray days, that my body and my mind need sunshine and warmth to thrive, that I'm so thankful we'll not see it for the next few years as we travel, carefully planning our schedules to avoid the cold and drinking white wine instead of red.
Our little home is nearly complete, and I shudder to think of doing such a complicated build ever again, yet I know we'll do them and I'll love every single second. I've a day planned Friday to spend time moving pieces about and making it home, baskets and art and pottery, rugs and stones and branches, preparing to photograph the finished space and share it with so many. I've not felt the way I wanted to feel about this Airstream, and I've not connected with it. For so long, we didn't know what was next or what it would mean to us, what it would be for us, we just knew to work on it and make something of it. So we did. Yet it'll never be Louise, and it'll never feel like the beginning of this dream, this journey - it'll always be the next step, the thing that brought us to where we are now.