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where the coyotes howl

It was morning when we packed our winter clothes and headed for the woods. A friend held the keys to a cabin outside of the city and invitations were sent our way to join him. I've always known that forest light and conversations beside a bonfire were an integral part of living happily. There is something to be said about the way goosebumps live on your skin and boredom departs when it's just you and the woods. I always return home to a newly foraged life, I make my bed less hurriedly and eat my apples without wishing they were pomegranates.

In the forest, poems come easier, stars are closer to the iris, clocks are forgotten and the smell of pine is strong enough to make an adult feel like she is only a child. The forest humbles and hugs its inhabitants, as well as frightens them. After all, it is here where the coyotes howl.
We stared at the roaring fire, huddled between wool and wood, until the stars came out to enchant and dance upon the brows of those who were watching. I always make sure to look up into the night sky because it makes me feel small, and in doing so, not only do I shrink, but my worries and hunger shrink too. As I craned my neck to see if any of the stars were dancing across the darkened sky, Carter turned to me and said "The stars have always scared me. All of these years, I've been too afraid to look up."

At first, I was concerned and replied "How could the night sky scare you?" It was in this moment of asking that I realized how the stars have always scared me too. These bright faraway specks of silvery glow splattered across the black sky, a bold and beautiful sight as if giants took to painting after growing bored of daylight. It is here, underneath these stars, where my worries go to bed and I am reminded of every breath beneath my ribcage. I am suddenly a baby staring into the eyes of a starry sky, constellations as my lullabies and darkness as my light. I know I shouldn't be afraid, as I cling to the pockets of my wool coat, but it is through the fear of dying that I have learned to truly live. 

I looked at the sky and in a moment, I was lowly and small like an ant outside of the ant farm. I was no longer a twenty two year old girl who wanted blooming peonies and friends to love me, I was a tiny ball of dust and I was happier for it. The stars are shotguns to your ego, don't be afraid to look up. -

“When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?”
― Virginia Woolf 

The Outfit
Skirt Chicwish
  Hat Scala Hats from Winners
Boots & Sweater Thrifted from Value Village

the writer's life

These photographs were taken two weeks ago. Fourteen days. Two whole weeks. Why must the sun and moon trade places this many times before I begin writing to you? I want to tell you it is because I've been wild-eyed, building bonfires and living beside rabbit trails, but the truth is I've been striking banjo strings in my nightgown, playing video games until the early hours and singing songs in between the notes and sword fights. There is plenty of time to write but I've regretfully chose to do other things. Even my journal is empty and wordless like a friend I've loved but left behind me.

I always feel terrible when I think about writing when I am not writing. Even worse than when I burn my tongue on an appetizer before reaching the entree. When I am not writing, it is as if I have abandoned a child in a trove of green pines, when in reality, I have only abandoned the child within me, the child who uses written word as a fruit and freedom bearer. Sometimes writing feels less like collecting emotions and stringing them into pearls and more like pulling teeth. There is no recipe when you're gathered at the desk with pen and paper. There is only you, your thoughts, and a desire to express yourself in words.

 As a writer, you dream of sentences flowing free as the honeybees and wildflowers but you know you need compost, rain and sunlight. Sometimes, if you're anything like me, you may even need a hammer. Sentences are like self portraits, if you are unhappy with how one appears, you discard it and hope to put together a more flattering image. This can take hours of a writer's life. On days where writing is the pond and not the river, I'll wish I was born a baker. This is not to say a baker's life is without its share of trials, but a writer lives in the brain more than the feet or the hands. Success for the writer ends with a period and never with a warm loaf of bread.
I dream of having my own little room for writing. It could be tinier than a toadstool as long as it was mine. I dream of trees, moss, yellow birds, open windows beside a wooden desk, a glass of apple juice for every finished sentence, and a record player quietly humming old country songs. If only there was a little room with this kind of stillness and hours ahead of me, words like cherry blossoms could fall and scatter until the pages were no longer empty.

 The snow has left the hills and goose beds. I drink my coffee in the morning while the sun drifts through my window. I think about the future view of blossomy flowers and fruit on the vine, a bite of garden carrots and a cucumber patch will come to me in time. It will be garden growing season again. I'll collect my freckles and every grassy hill will be a poet's desk.
 "Enjoy now, Amy. The snow will fall again." I repeat to myself.

The Outfit
PonchoThrifted from Value Village
  Dress Eshakti
HeelsBlowfish Shoes
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