Distance has no meaning in the desert-not if the rider knows the way of things, the points of similarity between this and that, the places where the sky can fold.
In the Desert Like a Bone
We had a Gypsy moth attack this year. The caterpillars ate the trees down to bare twigs by mid June.
Preferring the pines and oaks, they got to the maples last, leaving bits of the leaves behind.
My little Japanese maple is making the most of its shreds of finery.
I seem to be trying to go in forty different directions at once. I never am sure of where to start, everything seems equally important. There are some changes looming ahead and I want to meet them on my terms. I just wish I had a better description of what those terms are. Its hard to trust that this will sort itself out if I can just trust the process of sorting it out.
Nesting has been with me for a long time now, 3 or 4 years at least. Sometimes it has shown up as art but it has also been a large part of my activities. I find myself sorting all the strands of my life, trying to find the shape of it. What do I want it to be?