It has been said "to not write is to die."
I have wondered that if in my absense of writing I have let part if myself die. My mind then wanders to the weight of this statement, contemplating it's significance and permanence.
Is this death similar to that of a plant, in which the visible part has withered away from lack if nutrients while there is another part hidden deep away in the roots that might hold some ounce of life? Or rather, does this death mimic menopause, where over time my creativity has dwindled away, leaving me with major necessary adaptations and barrenness?
Over the past week almost 50,000 acres have burned down due to a lightening strike. To date 112 structures have been lost. The county fair grounds have been turned into an evacuee camp for four legged and two legged creatures alike.
The ridge where my home and work were to be has been evacuated because the fire finally jumped the Poudre river. 200 acres have burned thus far. The goal is structure protection; this is key because of all the pine beetle kill. Ironically the past two months had been spent spraying for pine beetles in hope to save the trees that haven't been aflicted. Now, instead of an insect resculpting the land it is a wildfire.
For today, I breath in smokey air but sigh a short breath of minimal relief as my animals and I are safe for the time being.
I am moving!
This summer I am moving to the Western ridge. This is about 2.5 hours away from where I am now. It is nestled deep within the Colorado Rocky Mountains, but the closest "large" town is in Wyoming. I am trading in my granitic canyons and creeks for red dirt, a river valley, and a few lakes formed by glaciers in a previous lifetime.
A few friends live in the area and another local mentioned that they needed help with the horses this summer. A connection was made and the move is on.
Just a smattering of a shop update!
This morning I sit in front of my computer, partially completely inspired and partially completely overwhelmed for having not utilized my writing outlet for so long. My mind wanders as I stare out into the gray skies beyond the single paned glass window... The storm is rolling in with howling winds and echoing thunder that only exists in a world far above me.
On the other side of the wall I here the chirping of baby chicks, unsure to this new phenomena called weather. The call to their anonymous mother, they call to me, they call out to the heat lamp which brings them such comfort through their waking hours.
It is odd that this collection of mismatched electromagnetic electrons brings me such energy. But the chaos that looms above is somewhat fortuitous of what is going through my head. The great debate; there is always a great debate. But what is really to be decided? Is there nothing more true than to follow one's heart? What then, is to be thought of if one's heart continually rides the fence? Or even more so, if it tends to graze between both sides?
Eventually all debates come to an end... The heart must make decisions to remain happy and healthy.
For now, the animals beckon.
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