Sometimes the creative act is simply dipping into the great solitude that accompanied coming of age. Solitude as something both immense and tender, so that the child in his own world also feels pulses of the earth and spirits of the trees.
Winds, carrying dandelion petals and forgotten dreams, swept across childhood and left nothing but a dance of light.
But the long long days spent watching ants move houses have remained, not merely as hazy fragments of the past, but as gifts to be cherished.
Gifts as lights and whispers, kept as purity of soul.