I’ve been steeped in the past by looking through old journal entries, trying to piece together details to convey stories.  Big Sur just a month ago.  British Columbia fifteen years past.  Funny how the act of simply reading the words can stir the proverbial pot and thicken the broth.  Perhaps the emotions conjured through reading are a gateway through which I transcend time and space.  A vehicle with which I can build bridges or burn them down, depending on my desire.

For now I’m just thankful for how long the ink lasts on aged paper.  Hoping the mold doesn’t overtake my treasure trove of journals before I cross all those bridges (and digitize those stories somehow).

With the pot simmering and my heart transporting itself through time portals, it’s good to remember true North.  Which literally happens to be my physical locale in the island chain.  Home is where the heart is.  And there’s certainly some love and beauty in the backyard.