The past couple months have found me at Riverwind, grounded, silent, content. Humbled before soil and seeds and starts in the ever blooming garden. Humbled before the cold blue screen upon which a story breaks ground and grows. Both need nurturing, tending, feeding and weeding, digging in and turning entire sections over. And then it begins to come together. In the garden, glimmers of hope seeing every bed brought back to life with a new season of beauty and bounty. On my computer, the story begins to fold to close (though the editing process remains ridiculously consuming still).

The security and stability I have spent much of my lifetime searching for, figuring I would find the answers I longed for in a place. As if place defined me. Instead it confined me.

The radical act of lifting boundaries and flying free.

And the paradox of finding freedom in place.

I am challenged to find the answers within, crafting my own, rather than clinging to an outside source.

Oh yes, I soften my gaze. Look around and within while remaining in place. Until your wings have dried and spread and you feel what wind can do to them. Then you soar. And that’s okay too. You can’t see the bigger picture from inside your box.

Fling open the door wide and set the gates of your spirit free.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin