A forest, a witch, and a home.

As always, a year or several goes in-between posts.  We've left the busy city of San Francisco to the lush wilds of the Virginia forests. As I type I can spy over my computer trees so tall I can't see the tops of them, even on this third story of the house I inhabit for my writing. There's a richness to the land here I can't quite describe without some heavy sprinkling of flowery language.  It mostly has to do with the recorded history of this country having long taproots in this soil and the green that grows atop it.

Adjustments...they always take time, don't they.  Pensiveness derived of being somewhere new is real for a gal riddled with plagues of the past, but the green that surrounds me in nature draws out the bad memories like poison from snake bite.  There's healing in the forest for a woman such as I. Funny how as a younger person I always envisioned my primal most essence embodying that of the visions of Gwenevere in pictures books I read and later framed.  Her thoughtful expression, her long red hair and pale skin, the trees that surround her, a weaving of love, sorrow and magic with which I immortalized her. Now, at this part of my story, how unintentionally she and I ended up to be the same woman, and what tragedy in her eyes I once romanticized I now understand as the burden of life's stories seared with too many brands on the delicate flesh of a soul. However, the forest of endless trees and their reaching arms helps to lift the melancholy and replace it with a peacefulness I haven't had since I left England. I hope to live here forever.

Writing.

That is happening again.

Whatever muses speak, I'm listening. The response is rough but it's running over pages. The same city that inspired so many was my plague!  Ugh, I laugh at the dramatics of that sentence, maybe of this whole post, but it's true!  There was never a moment not filled with the sounds of machines or people.  Please give me the wind in the trees! The birds, owls and whatever else makes up the song in a forest is enchanted ointment.  Let me hide here in a basket weaving of shadows for eternity. The only noise of people here are the spirits of slain soldiers wandering through my imagination. As their voices seem like kin to the Angles and Saxon of my youth, there is an open invitation to their visits.

Enough poetic blah blah.  It's time to get dressed for the day and unpack more boxes.

xo