We sat outside on our little stone step, just being in the cold and windswept night. I watched the poplar trees sway and thought that I could have been on a farm in the north where, as a child, I drank hot soup and learned how cows were milked. Or in the hills where I grew up and where the trees were heavier and the wind fell dark into the hill roots.
It didn't matter that I sat on a stone step a mile from the ocean. What my bones experienced was only one layer of the truth. I was also in the north, and in the heavy forest. And just a little in the imagined house of a recently read story. Each of these places was just as real in my experience at that moment as the stone beneath me.

I think we get easily distracted by what we see, and so we fall into believing in geography.

[writealm ... well, mostly.]


  1. that last line is just perfection.

    1. thank you :-) I've found that knowing when to stop writing is one of the major keys to writing!