The beauty of this place fed my spirit, which was parched, tired, discouraged, and flat. I was able to breathe in the contours of the landscape, let the ever-changing light warm and massage me, and accept the wind as it presented itself—warm and gentle, deep and heaving, or heavy with rain that came at me like knives.
I met my father coming round corners and heard him in the wind whipping off the shore. I had wanted to call him on the phone but soon discovered there was no need: he was all around me. Others were with me as well.
The house is alive with energy and resolve and the spirits of those who have come and gone. Upstairs Bobbie types in fierce spurts. Her passion seeps through the ceiling—mine to ride if I choose. I want to make my readers feel some of the round satisfied joy I feel listening to Gerry read. Listening to him, I'm reminded that "poetry is not a luxury; it's a necessity." Susan. — for years, I've had dreams about all of the things — my mother's wig, for one — I've stuffed away in closets because I couldn't throw them away but could'nt bear looking at them. So, Lydia has become a regular at the kitchen table of the mind. Yve's easy laughter and spirited brilliants I've put in my pocket to pull out when I get dull-witted, heavy, and discouraged. And Sue — a wonderful listener with a keen ear. Her suggestions and advice (about both writing and life) strike me as both insightful and straight on.