People write. They reach out over the
expanse of space and their own time.
They say that visiting the pictures and
the words is like going to have a little time off, in an alternate universe, or
maybe just a small quiet place in this universe, where there are no wars and no
poverty, and there isn’t a problem with your bills or your roof, the pain in
the butt person at work or the challenge your kid is facing that has you
stumped.
That the tiny place where there are
these moons and trees and thoughts and stories and small skies and hawks and one black Shepherd and ideas, they
know, are taking place on the same earth as wherever they live.
In all sorts of countries and continents and
by arid beautiful flat lands or in bustling complex cities with small places of
small blossoms and big buildings and stoops.
They say that there is something about
knowing that today, or yesterday, or the magic of possibly even right now, the
words and pictures convey some kind of connection, between people. Some days
even between all things.
They say that most of all, the words and
pictures are quiet and soothing.
That they are helpful at the beginning or the end of a day. To tie things up gently, and lay cares off on a shelf, to be simply with the simple enough. So they can land and breathe and fall asleep everywhere at home.
That sometimes here there are hints of
great struggles, but that only means they are not struggling alone, off in their own lives of chaos or isolation or deep fatigue or confusion or lament.
They are struggling while the life here
in the words and pictures does so also.
That here, there is no election and no
strife in town politics and no dissenting beliefs or stance.
There are no big bad things happening in
this small place; only the sweep of the wind and the continual rotation of the
earth, as the seasons shift and change, the wildlife and ground cover take
turns coming into fruition, and time slowly moves on.
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