A Hearts View

I seem to be deeply impacted and most creative in certain spaces and I draw to quiet and self-reflection like a moth to a flame. I work in theatre most days, constantly interrupted and busy, but when I get home I sink into the Garden and let its natural healing properties slow down my pace to a rest. As a girl I learned to write and journal behind my father’s tapestry recliner that was also right in front of a door. It was a door that had been sealed and a curtain placed over it to make it feel like we had a bigger living room then we did. The door design was sectioned into fifteen smaller window openings by smaller wooden pieces, but I mostly peered and dreamed from the bottom two rows. Insulation was a bit of an issue in our small home and often the windows at the bottom in the coldest of Colorado winters would freeze over lightly. I never minded though because I could place my finger on the cold window and create and even smaller porthole to view the large trees and winters magical scenery from. Once Mom moved the chair and my many small finger prints were discovered all over the bottom windows and from that point on it became my responsibility to keep them clean. Dad often smoked a pipe and I most cherished a cold winters day reading and writing behind his chair as the soft smoke of cherry flavored tobacco gently rolled into my secret space. To this day although I don’t smoke I really do love the smell of tobacco of any kind be it cigar, pipe or cigarette. Once while visiting my friend Amy in Georgia she showed us the tobacco fields, the large leaves so big, green and almost jungle like. I loved her stories of handling them and how the leaves were cured and fermented in small spaces and chambers to ensure their rich dark and amazing fragrance, she said her hands would smell like tobacco and she likes the smell of tobacco too. Sorry I digress a bit but obviously a writing space for me is the whole experience, it is small, it is nature, it is aromas and I am at the height of creativity when I can somehow pull it all from the outside in. A quote my Helen Keller, “What I am looking for is not out there it is in me”, and so I sit in the quite of my Garden and I look for a small porthole or a narrow passage. I gaze just long enough that it allows a tiny bit of beautiful in to open my heart.. and I remember and write.. YM

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