It’s Sunday afternoon, hot & sunny; a thick yet lightly pensive day. I hear birds, the occasional car and not so occasional buzzing bug. After a couple slow paced hours in the kitchen enjoying a lazy breakfast, visiting with some ‘fellows’ and making a pasta dish to bring to the potlluck picnic later in the day, here I am. The front porch: it’s shaded, wooden and houses a large, solid picnic table and a long table with chairs. There are benches around the perametre under the window boxes of flowers. It is a place where sharing happens naturally. At this moment, it’s me, and another woman taking a lunch break with the NY Times and an orange. I feel at home, yet it’s all so new. I am here with my clan. Writers who teach, aritsts who write, singers who paint, poets who work. It is a trip in the best of possible ways. I’m dropping in here briefly to share some of the journey. What better place to be than in the kingdom of gentle creativity and luscious green?
Here, it is like cottage for the creative clan. Cottagesque. Here, there are electrical plugs that I have never seen before. Bugs, too, that I’ve never seen and many that I have. Pipes repaired with purple paste. One hundred and ten year old wood buildings, scenting the air with a singular history of this creative clan. Here, there are people exchanging their stories, diverse yet similar. Here, the floors creak and sounds carry. Here, there is a bulletin board with notices about plays, exhibitions, swimming holes, yoga classes, massage sign ups. Grocery runs to town. Here is for working. Everyone says hello, and how is the work coming along? They are interested, concerned and sympathetic. They are here to work, but also to learn and to let go. This place was built for this purpose and knows it in every minute, every inch.