Aren’t we all

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Peripheral

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Some days I catch a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye of how life used to be, but of course when I turn to look it isn’t really there. What is normal now, is far from what normal was. After much thought, I made the choice to give up my studio. I considered sharing the space, but decided money in my pocket was the best option. I only have been able to get in and use the space a couple times a month since last August anyhow. It has been a tough 9 months and life has forced changes I didn’t foresee having to embrace. My husband’s recovery is a slow and uncertain process,brain injuries are like that. But I am grateful he can walk, talk, laugh and joke, read a bit, and do some daily tasks. That doesn’t mean it isn’t frustrating for both of us as it can be a slow slog some days. Everything has changed, and continues to do so.We are getting through it as couples do, one day at a time. As far as the studio, the unused dining room will be re-purposed as I try to do more online to offset the foot traffic which I would normally get on open studio days. We’ll see.

Postage affixed

mantle stamp

This fall while poking around an old. empty house I noticed this tiny stamp stuck on the mantle. As the house has sat empty for years, though this was my first foray inside, I do not know if the stamp was put there decades ago or more recently. It appears to be a stamp from Chile, and in that old green and off white color of days gone by. I have kept an eye on the house all these years since seeing the estate sale on the lawn close to a decade ago, always expecting it to have been torn down. It was a farm and sits on 40 some acres right on a busy state route, and since big box stores have been filling in all along the route I know it is just a matter of time. It is also possible it will go to upscale homes with a fancy sign saying Pheasant Ridge Run or some such overdone name. It is completely unlikely it will be restored. I will post some other photos over the next week so you can get a feel for the place, as it does have a story that is all but lost except for these images.There is not enough postage affixed to save it. Such is life.

Across the fields

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The track of the year seems set, yet it bends and turns beyond the range of my vision. Yet it fools me into thinking it won’t hold unexpected twists and turns, muddy spots and dead ends. Even though I know it will. The desire for certainty wars with the idea of adventure and new experiences, each possesses its own siren call.

Maybe once

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Once upon a time there was a little girl who would pass this tiny cottage tucked back in the woods. She would gaze at it from the backseat as she passed it by, wondering how such a place came to exist where it did. Surely it was part of a fairy tale world that had slipped through time to crouch amongst the locust trees. Seemingly unreachable as no driveway or path leads to it from the road. She never saw a person around it and no light ever brightened its windows, the nearest houses seemed blind to the very existence of the tiny cottage so unlike their own traditional design. Year after year, snow would fall and blanket the tiny cottage making it look like a holiday card, seasons came and went and time passed never really seeming to have an impact on it. It had been there years before the little girl and her siblings saw it and called it Snow White’s cottage, and is still there now that her little girls are grown up, looking much the same in spite of the passing decades. It is a timeless place, where childhood seems to be suspended and childlike dreams can live on forever. Where a child can play house, create their own world, curl up with a book, or believe in fairies, in short a world we long to leave as teens and regret losing from then on, a world filled with the wonder of imaginary play and freeĀ from grownup cares.

I do not know the reason for such a cottage to be at this spot, I have heard it might have been part of a writers colony and wonder what the other structures might have looked like. Maybe they were they all fairy tale style, or a mix of styles all of a dollhouse size, this is the only one that remains. I also don’t know why this one was left and never became a home. I expect I could research the property and find answers to this and other questions, yet I never have. Possibly because to do so would change the magical feel of the place by reducing it to the mundane issue of ownership and dates. Though maybe the history would prove just as fascinating as the sight of the cottage is to me even now.

12 days gone by

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Now the 12th day of Christmas has passed, all the ornaments and decorations packed away for another year. The swans, partridge, gold rings and maids work complete for this holiday season. The tree is out by the bird feeder to provide a perch for the birds, the furniture moved back into its customary positions. The smell of pine needles has faded into memory and the winter has set in complete with a covering of post holiday snow. I am settling in to the practice of writing 2015, though it won’t become fluid for some time. I find that this time of year is a bit of a paradox, the holiday seems so long ago yet is actually not yet 2 weeks passed. January feels like another time unto itself. The slowly lengthening days, the sharp cold light and the quiet all seem to set the month apart. I like the timelessness that January days impart, the slow rhythm of the days which seem more suited to daydreaming over cups of tea or coca than giant leaps into the unknown. There seems to be time to mull things over, just as during the sultry dog days of summer, when your mind moves randomly from topic to topic, just exploring possibilities. Perhaps it is all part of a certain feeling found in the weather extremes of those two seasons. It is the illusion that time is moving slower than it is, a sleight of hand, a trick of the eye, and maybe a bit of magic that we all need from time to time.