Monday, August 19, 2013
I'm on the train, it's seven hours late, but I don't mind, it's process time. I've been away from my home for just a day more than a week and I have to look at a calendar to prove that. The neverland of my time was Ghost Ranch, where the clouds are three dimensional (and hanging in the sky is not a cliche), the sky is ocean clean deep blue, and the friendships created are more than circumstantial friends. We have shared this time, this space, and the hundred or so of us, have formed a bond in that, through mosquito bites and camp food and rustic sleeping arrangements and talking and listening and smiling and being. While personal, the experience is a collective energy that enhances and challenges each of us. We are writers, no matter of production, or resume, or degrees, or kinds, or speed, or place, or purpose. We have connected, we are connected. Hope is our focus. To carry this place, these people forward, longer than the mosquito bites itch, is my intent, for this is to my benefit, to our benefit. Our lives have touched, I am enriched. Our shadows are still there on the land, our ghosts, to add to the many who once having been there, leaving something, taking something. Connecting.