Threads: 69/365

It’s an odd process finding one true thing to say about myself every day. Truth can be simple but doesn’t come easy. Possible threads drift through my thoughts daily, but I don’t always want to write into them. I was twelve years old the first time I ever boarded a plane alone. I believe that singing a song you love at the top of your lungs can be a form of prayer. I talk to trees and plants. Zoos and other places that imprison wildlife make me weep. One of the reasons I stay home with my toddler is so that she can be in the dirt and fresh air, on the beach and under trees. I struggle with the way writing pulls me away from my daughter and my husband. When I was twenty-one, I visited Cezanne‘s studio in the south of France, crouched on a hillside with my canvas while the wind blew dirt and twigs into my oil paints, and I painted my own Mont Sainte-Victoire.

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2 thoughts on “Threads: 69/365

  1. I like that – I mean to say I get that, and like that way of describing, not always wanting to “write into them”

    another odd semi-parallel – I was studying over in nearby Toulouse at 20

    Liked by 1 person

    • How funny that we were both in France around the same time! I was 21…a post-grad semester at Lacoste School of the Arts (then owned by Bard, now Savannah College of Art & Design) in a tiny village called Lacoste, an hour southwest of Avignon. It was a magical place of cobblestone streets, fig trees and sunflower fields and vineyards. So beautiful, I almost feel like I dreamed it.

      Like

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