It's bright with cold outside. I've walked the dogs, stepped in ice puddles and come home to tuck my feet under a pile of old quilts, light a candle, make tea and tell you why I've waited since the summer to come back to you. I wanted time - time to just be, time for family, time to make and write; time to slow down for long enough to collect my thoughts and to whitewash a cabin in the woods at the back of the garden where I can hide and work.
A friend gave us an old wood burning stove to keep the cabin warm through the winter. I've filled old post office shelves with books, wool, beads, bones, note books and possibility. And done more hiding than work. We've pulled mattresses outside to sleep under the stars and lie by the fire, taken red flasks of hot coffee to the beach, danced all night in the kitchen and gathered friends and family to share good food and celebrate our everyday lives together. I've reached the conclusion that if I want to come here to talk to you, it has to be in the middle of all that living and the washing will have to lie unfolded on the bed for a bit longer.
