I never expected that a single place could speak to me for the rest of my lifetime.

I knew, from the moment I set eyes on this river house and its countryside, that I would love it as my parents did. It was an inexplicable love, greater than the connection my parents had for this place, greater than the hours spent watching the sun cast its light into the water, greater than the sunset over the pasture or than the creatures who come to visit.

Who’d have thunk?

I have always had a restless heart. The need to experience what is not present has been a propelling force in my life. The desire for opposites drives me. Except here.

When I’m writing, I don’t spend as much time sitting out under the sky at morning and sunset, but the place remains present in my eye. The sounds that change with breeze and season. The color of light on water. The rain. The breeze and its touch on the deep notes of windchime that tell me the wind’s direction. Change  comes to small things. And there is no boredom in it, no same in the sameness.

These are the elements that inhabit my writing. The silence that gives me my voice; the ever-different backdrop of my life. It is not a settling for less than everything. It is not the product of getting older. Minute by minute and day by day, the same-and-changing experience tells me everything about itself. And about myself.

Do all writers have this: a place that speaks to us, that helps us write–even if it is only a place in our heads?

For me, the view from a chair. The who I am when all else is stubbornly absent. Of the earth, by the earth, the gift my parents gave me.

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