A SACRED PLACE The Studio

The sacred place for all my imaginative ideas to breathe life is at the house, the one built by my grandpa and gram.

Living room walls made of cypress from the everglades. A fireplace as a centerpiece of the room, and a hearth to dry your boots on. A basement to mull ideas through the night, and see the work fresh in the morning light.

A metamorphosis takes over the breezeway, and a studio takes hold, inviting natural objects to gather and be worn. I want to be where the baskets hang, in the warmth off a wood blazing stove. The waterfall spills through the night, a lullaby to sleep in all but the summer months. Soon the peep frogs will chime in, and offer the same solace. Cold snowy days feel equally stimulating as warm misty mornings. Energy lives there, and it lets me feed liberally, because I love her so much. “Here she comes,” the land announces. “Our keeper, our lover, our muse, let’s nourish her soul, and watch what she can create.”