She bit

It was pouring in the field as I was planting the gomphrena. I paused, and let me eyes wander around the gardens. Hard work. Love. Beauty. Pain. All squeezed into Time. In these moments of pause, I often think of lines I would probably include in my book. These words always come to me when I don’t have the energy or ability to write them down. They drift in, an offering, and they drift out. I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll write it down later, I think, as my hands move towards work. But you’ll forget, she challenges. This is the moment right before you taste the honey, I remind her. I look at my studio doors and sprint, holding onto this moment as long as I can. There’s always a notebook in every room of my dwellings. Sometimes I leave them open, with a pen sitting in the spine. A romantic gesture. Maybe one day she’ll bite.

Breathing heavily and dripping with rain water, she bit.

In chicken scratch large lettering with only a few sentences on each page, I pour out. I’m writing this to communicate that every human experience is a story worth telling. When I pick up a book, what I am often searching for is community. A connection to a soul willing to share the tales of all their most sacred moments. Transition. Deep heart ache. Joy. And all the stuff in between.

This moment got interrupted, as it usually does, and as it should.

“Did you water the greenhouse?” And then I had to get back to chorin.