I've just had a book published and am nearly done with the initial hoopla, and I'm wanting to be quiet. Very quiet. I'm sitting here now with birds trilling in the background, communing with each other and the trees, flowers, bugs, shrubs. I'm able to read now, and so I was given Janie Chang's Dragon Springs Road, and finished it in three days and loved her poetry, her language. I've just begun The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben, and though I've only read ten pages or so, my life is already feeling enhanced, enriched.
I'm filling myself up again. And I have no clue where the words that will someday flow again through me will land -- and what they'll be contained within -- what story needs tellin'.
I'll just stay here deeply listening, being patience, being nature's natural pace.