A Different Sort of Grown Up
Last night I was working with Italics in the farmhouse. He and I are getting closer and closer to hunting weight and skill. He landed on the bench with my fiddle and I got lucky to snap this picture. I adore it. It shows the heart of this farm. The harsh melody that is a creative world that allows things like slaughter, martial arts, archery, falconry and rifle season. It's human and animal, but wood and brass and not plastic and toy poodles. This little farm is a manifestation of who I am, or who I want to be. It's what all our homes are, really.
In the mail this week I got some cards from readers. I got new blog subscribers. A man from Wisconsin mailed me a handmade Osage Orange horsebow and arrow. What woman in this country gets ancient weapons and cards with puppies playing on them delivered in the same day? Another reader send an email that floored me, about such an upturned life and personal goals I was humbled by it, and ashamed of the blog post I wrote about not living vicariously. I feel so damn lucky to have you readers. I know a lot of authors have webs tires and blogs, but I don't know many who have the relationship we have. You are welcomed in this house, in this life, at this farm. Your cards, emails, gifts, donations, book purchases and patience are helping fuel this little fire on the mountain.
I thank you, all.
Luceo Non Uro.