In 1991, my husband and I sold 40 acres that we owned in West Virginia to buy two acres and a fully furnished house about 15 miles from our original piece of land. We were working at the time. We looked forward to this home at the foot of an Appalachian Mountain Range as being a place of refuge from the stress of our jobs. It would be a place of peace, reflection and inspiration. In time, my husband was inspired to create several drawings of the mountains, trees and wild flowers. All of these works were drawn in black and white. Some were black positive shapes on white paper; others were white paper shapes created by filling in a black back-ground. Over the next 18 or so years, many of these works became part of a dozen or more exhibits in galleries within 500 mile radius of our mountain home.
My hope was that I would be inspired to write poetry, something that I had done in my twenties and early thirties. That did not happen. In time, I did do some writing, mostly non-fiction and a little fiction,but, no poetry. Last week, I pulled out notes that I had compiled of our trips and major purchases as a couple. In describing my transition from sitting on the deck of our new home in West Virginia at dusk into the house at night, I wrote:
I sat there until the shades of gray blackened into night. Then I went inside to have night peer in at me through eight unadorned windows. Night’s irises are black – she has no other eye-parts. Not bad. Not quite poetry.