This morning I look for a thread, some simple, single thing to share. But all are snippets.
Fresh sheets on the bed.
Jeb’s first sunflower bloom at sunrise.
Anais Nin and Henry Miller.
Archival storage boxes.
The Paris Writer’s Workshop.
Fresh-cut canvases and thick, white oil paint.
Art’s essence and time travel.
Is the time machine our heart?
The grainy picture of that distant, remote island. Ten years before my digital camera.
I lived in that place. Among swans that floated on ice blue waters. A street called Morningside along a waterfall to the sea. Purple starfish clung to ocean bottoms while Bald Eagles’ mated, free falling from the sky. Thick green moss on ancient tree trunks were velvet thrones in a seaside forest. And then there was the love.
Full French in rolling sweetness. Je t’aime in loving arms.
In the fairy land we weren’t afraid to take our hearts and just pull them from our bodies. Hold them in our hands beneath the stars. Gaze into each other’s eyes and seek there freely. Fumble through discovery. Lay down in the leaves. Wonder at connection. Trust in the magic all around.