I haven’t written much in months; not here, or elsewhere.
I am not sure why.
This was my most recent attempt, a little more than a week ago:
I don't know for sure what stirs me here, it is beautiful, but there is something beyond the beauty.
There is movement here, movement in the land that captures the mind as it directs the body. This land is vast in an intimate way; somehow close, somehow present.
The mountains of the West are expansive and drenched in awe, they ignite my spirit and I love them. But there is something distant in their mass and wonder, something that I cannot gain grasp of with my spirit nor capture with my pen.
But the Driftless is close and when I am there I feel held and my spirit caressed.
Today I talked with a dearest friend about just this; the paused pen, the dry spell, the wish for and the fear of the words.
Her pen is making contact again and her passion was infections, so here I am wetting my page and hoping for a flood.
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