I have moved to where my heart has longed to be. I have drifted in my life, now, to the foot of a mountain; with acres of grass and meadow and woods and ancient orchards that hide beneath the soil; and cows that low in the morning fog and butterflies that dance above the goldenrod.
My dreamed longings have married with the view.
It is quiet. I no longer hear the backdrop of the swish and whirr of continual traffic or colliding trains in the machine-deafening train yard; the overheard angry conversations and the frightening siren sounds late at night. It is loud. It is cacophonous with the sounds of horses, and cows, and chickens, and dogs, and crickets, and frogs, and cicadas; the whooping shrieks of the coy-wolves chasing the arcing moon, the calls and twitters and whistles and songs of so many, many birds my head whirls with trying to know them. And the wind - that comes up from the bay and over the mountain to dance with our trees in our woods.
And has many songs - but never sings with the fog.
This place, this humble farm and its more than a century of history; this place of verdant woods and gentle meadow and (occasionally) salt-tanged air, is an artist. She spins the gossamer clouds into mare's tails. She paints the meadows with wildflowers and butterflies. She forms gullies and streams with the soil and water and pulls lichen-scabbed stones from the earth.
She sings - always.
I am her noviciate. I am here, at the foot of the mountain, and my heart is receptive, welcoming - to put into photographs what is shown me. Like the silent, eye-filled woods at night, or the shimmer of the sleeping river, or the hush of the listening moon. In this place where, unbeknownst to me all these years,
I am meant to be.
