Imbolc Waxing Bloodroot Moon
This journey has begun to bend toward home. I”m more eager know to go home than I was to come here when I left. That seems good to me. Home is the place you know you’re away from when you’re gone. No place else on earth has that lodestone attraction for me.
Home is where the heart is, yes, and my heart is with Kate, with Vega, Rigel and Kona, with the raised bed and the garlic, the asparagus, the strawberries, with the bees and the grandkids play house, with the flower beds and the woods, with our house which, in exactly the same way a church is sanctified, has become sacred. The life and the love,, our history there, has made it a sacred realm, a realm of the heart and a sanctuary for our life.
I have two yellow pads, one full, the other on its way, scribbled with this story of another world and these people I’ve come to know over the course of writing it. Brag, Constance, John, Aeric, Gullen, Arton, Isaac, Cern. Well, maybe a couple of these are speaking animals and one is a god, but they’ve come alive for me over the months I’ve spent on Missing. Their journey, I see now, has only just begun, will only finish its first phase as this novel draws to a close in another 30,000 words or so.
This writing is and has been such a strange act for me, virtually solitary save for Kate, who has stuck with me in my up and down moments, my more confident moments and, most important, in my melancholy. Otherwise, I’ve written these novels, these short stories and they go in a file or in a box and sit, George Plimpton once called an unpublished work of his, A Monster In A Box. This will be my sixth or seventh monster.
Not complaining just observing that’s been strange.