Being inside most of the day makes my bike ride home monumental. I have noticed that I am often times writing about nature on here. I think it is because of this outdoors experience before I settle down for the night, which is when I write this. Imagine how boring it would be for me to tell you how beautiful my work table in the studio is.
I remember that paint splatter, and that oil stain too. I am not sure where that chip in the wood came from, and all those razor thin exacto marks, I was cutting something for sure. My life is in here - moments in time that add up all around me. That is from a friend, and that I found outside during that rain storm. I remember building that, and the day that they came over to visit and have tea. We laughed so much about that story. Here I am piling up around myself. The trinkets of my life that tell such a profound story - one that can never be told. Now as I look around, knowing that soon this will no longer be my home I wonder about all the time that has passed, and notice how it is engrained in my skin, and my heart. I cry out a little at such loss, and yet something inside me knows that the horizon is never far.
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