Hello, loves. It's August now, you know. That month that has winding down and ramping up all swirled together. Yes, you know August. Perfect time, I thought, to pinch the cheeks and straighten the hems of some former posts for you to see & enjoy.
November, 2011. I wanted to show you this one for the pictures, and for the story behind the words that were born that winter. We were living in the camper by then, that small cocoon of a space where intricate, lacy frost covered the windows for most of the season. At times, we would have a small open space of glass to look through to the barn, the horses, and their pasture there on the bank of the river beyond, but mostly, Jack Frost's etchings were our window's constant covering.
And for seven months, in the early morning hours, I blogged from the step that lead from the hall up to the 'bedroom' in the upper part of the camper. It was the only place in the camper that could be closed off by a sliding door on either side, giving me a studio of sorts between the sleeping boys in the living area, and the sleeping husband in the bedroom. My desk was a step (I sat on the floor), a hall was my studio, and the words still came, requiring nothing more than a quiet moment in which to be born.
:: Jack Frost's etchings on winter morning windows
:: Wool socks. Lots of wool socks!
:: These, for Santa (who plows our snow)
:: For little notes & scribbles? These
:: Warm, in the works
:: That Emily and her wise words:
"Surviving says, 'Just make it through'. True living says, 'Let's make this count'."
:: Poetry, written by the seven year old boy while sitting in the sunshine on the front steps. His idea.
:: Sounds of the NFL, and stats discussed at length around the dinner table
:: Sewing up secrets in a light-filled room with other women who were also sewing up secrets.
:: Clear, glass-thin ice covering the pond
:: These fabrics
:: Candle light
:: Tunes, chosen by the tween
:: The Monday morning of a holiday week!
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