...to rest, to lay down upon the earth and give yourself to it. There is a season to walk in the dappled light, to record the light, or, even better, to just let the light fall upon you. There is a season for fervor, for zealotry and worship. There is a season for failure, when visions are eclipsed by niggling human need. There is a season to drive, and drive, taking roads never driven upon. There is a season to ask strangers what they believe, and to listen to them sing in a pale white church. There is a season for plump blood dahlias. For red barn doors. For dried gourds. Pumpkin muffins. There is a season when the stone washes away. There is a season to wind your way home. There is a season when pink kisses the sky good night.
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