Wild Mind

Remember the baker's twine I mentioned at Thanksgiving?  Well, here's mine in the photo above, and as you can see, it's still at loose ends.  That's fine with me.  Nothing is done or nearly done on my list, and yet I took time today to take and process photos.  It felt good to set up shots, think about light and mood and cropping.  I didn't have room in my head for worry.  I was in my working wild mind.  I go there for photos and for writing; I don't let anything in the outside world touch that part of me.  It's too precious.  You know when people ask what you'd grab first in the case of a house fire?  Besides the kitties and Mr. Magpie, I'd be happy if my body and my wild mind made it out intact.  

It's not exactly my brain that I mean.  My brain's part of it, I suppose, but it's my gut, too, and probably my heart.  And other parts I can't define.  I don't talk about this with many people--just the writers that I help to craft their poems and stories and letters and thoughts, and the people closest to me, the ones who don't mind when I get that absent look on my face in the middle of supper or someone's birthday party right when it's time for candles and cake.  I don't mean to be antisocial or rude.  It just happens.  I smell the scent of cinnamon or catch a glimpse of a book on a shelf that I read in 1982, and I'm gone . . . back to my wild mind for however long it takes.  I'm sharing this with you because I know you get it.  You go there, too, I bet.  You call it something different, but you can't imagine living without it, and that is why we've found each other.