My days have taken on a gentle rhythm. Mornings are cat time, and the Birmans are content to purr and snuggle a bit until the day summons us forth, to the kitchen, where they enjoy their breakfast while I make mine.
I think about weaving a lot during the day, and make plans that are often written on the gossamer threads of imagination. I seem to have all the plans and all the answers until I arrive at home and step into the studio.
The studio is not quite the peaceful sanctuary it is destined to become. There are still a few too many boxes underfoot. The windows need to be washed. But sanctuary is relative in a place that is already a secluded retreat from all that holds no meaning for me. The sun sets behind the mountaintops and I am learning the topography of the space between my mountaintop and the ones to the west. I am learning which doors and windows can be open when the rain pours down. I have regained my ability to sleep and dream.
I am gently melting into the bliss of being home, of no longer having to hold on to every tattered shred of my identity in a world that was intent upon tearing it from my grasp. I have slipped quietly into a community that shares my values. I don’t have to create it or defend it.
I know that the studio space will evolve and the boxes will be dealt with. Doing this with full mindfulness takes time. I am still casting away stones, looking to release what no longer serves me. I can do that now that I am home.