Time: Saturday 8 am. A day in mid-June. I wake up rested. A body that's fresh and drowsy at the same time, here in this place of inspiration. A complete inspiration, that feeling of being free from distractions. The hour is quiet. Birds begin; they make their promises, they gossip, speculate on the mimesis of need, bred to stay alive another worldly day, do what demands to be done. I listen.
Space: Sarah's room on the corner of the 2nd floor at the restored Ragdale House, an impressive place reminiscent of the Old World and yet so modern, a space I am not willing to give away yet, to you or anyone else. Let me absorb it first, describe it later, make it mine for the brief time it possesses me and holds me within.
Heart: I return to Ragdale, anticipating nothing, expecting nothing in return except life and the unburdening of it so I may enter an innerworld of creativity, which the external threatens to snatch from me at any given moment, caused, of course, by my busy-ness. What may happen here? I am willing to let go and find out. This is the nature of my residency. I see sunlight beat against the green lawn, the trees, my window. That is more than sufficient.