the start

tonight is as good a night as any. the house is quiet. fires have choked the air, spewing ashes on half ripened tomatoes and clothes still hanging on the line. leftover heat and the sweet smell of smoldering pines cover me like a thick blanket as i step outside. the pillar of smoke has slowly ascended the tree line and the dogs mumble skyward from their beds as the planes pass over once again.

butte fire 2015

a fitting introduction to life in northern california. during fire season. on what is, hopefully, the coat tails of a three year drought. but there are other things to write about here. the reasons why i built a life among these winding river canyons and bony oaks. why i sow my stories in fields of perpetually golden grass. here i hope to collect some of the sweetness, like honey in a jar, to keep. to share. i hope to document the trials, that not unlike fire, seem to encourage new growth. aaaaad if i’m honest probably the occasional cocktail recipe. or current read. or household project. or whatever it is housewives blog about these days. i’m kidding…kind of, but when i’m not daydreaming i sometimes help mothers and fathers birth their babies, so perhaps too i’ll offer the stories they so bravely allow me to be apart of.

and again, if i’m honest…i’m with didion on this one:

“the impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. i suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. although i have felt compelled to write things down since i was five years old, i doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”

― joan didion


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