At. Last.

Acorns dropped from the trees. Thuds without rhythm, without intent, only falling with the winds assistance. Lacking grace, but confident in stride I step through the woods. My feet crackle the autumn leaves, twigs, and by an unavoidable meeting of the fates – a slug. These woods are perfect.

A golden light makes his way in-between the blushing leaves, warming beneath the canopy. From the road, I glanced to this secluded bit of woods, and with instinct turned towards her. She is leaning back against the steep incline. Both fighting the pull of gravity from above, and the force of hillside below. Why was no other sneaking asylum under her branching reach? How could it be possible that only I was inclined to lean against her ancient trunk? My head fell back, resting against the rough bark and I exhaled. The day was gone.

The building fear was gone.

          The swelling exhaustion was gone.

                           The tightening knot of no release - was gone.

I was alone. Only the thudding of the acorns, and the magpies calling, stopped the perfect silence. Wind flushed my too-long bangs over my eyelids, and tickled my nose. From the road, waiting for the sixth car to pass I had seen this spot, but from here there was no road. There were no cars and there was no one out there looking for asylum. My shoulders loosened, my back curved, and my lips did both. The golden light was flittering between the leaves and I knew they had been found.

The loss of words is no easy challenge for one who writes. Time passes swiftly, the last grain of sand passing as soon as the first. Each grain hitting the next as they shoot though the vertical passage, gaining speed. 

How quick the turner turns and then time is gone. First one turn, then the second, third, fourth, a day, a week, a month, and the words are even harder to recall. The story is lost, shadowed by a darkening mist encroaching on the foundations of your story, your words.

You sit in effort. A long awaited moment of time just for yourself. Hands ready for the usual, golden warmth to flow from mind to fingers, but it does not come. How much time has passed? How many turns? No light can puncture that mist, it is a nagging and cloudy fortress. Notes are no good, the words are choppy and weak, and even the persistent pen feels cumbersome. But, even now when your mind and materials seem against you, you know what you need. You always know what you need.

Acorns dropped from the trees. My back pressed into the trunk. A blushing warmth touched my cheek, and between the blinking of my eyelashes, I saw that golden light return.   

xx, kristin