The Threads He Weaves Together
On being quiet, writing books, hitting deer, and sleeping in the basement of a tow truck driver.
It’s cool enough to light a fire in the kitchen wood stove most mornings now, patches of wispy fog threaded throughout the woods like a guazy web and the sky a slow blushing of blue-gray daylight. I enjoy the progression of building a small tower of wood and crinkly paper and splintered kindling and bits and bobs of various starters, and then lighting the match, and feeling the stretch of time into daybreak. The door squeals a bit as I close it, and both cats arrive to weave between my slippers before feeding and heading outside. It’s a quiet joy, this morningtide.
Of late, however, I’ve been away from my cedar cabin in the woods. A conference in Kansas City, followed by a road trip seeking the grave sites of my husband’s ancestors, had a serenity of its own. I’m not saying it was quiet, per se, sharing workshops and food (oh! the food there was divine!) with 1300 other people; nor was the automobile accident we had upon colliding with a deer the s…