Of course she's from Virginia's Blue Ridge, this author: this observer. She speaks beautifully... but who can't speak beautifully about what's beautiful, i wonder. Even so, there's a peculiar difference when someone writes with truth and seeking in the back of their brain as the context for every observation, like an accent that turns ordinary speach into echoes of some ancient royalty.
Of course she's from Virginia's Blue Ridge.
I'm tempted to think that's where she finds such beauty but the truth is, a mockingbird can fall to the grass anywhere. The art is not in the context, i know i know. It's in the eyes that have taken that smallest step of "being there," and accepted the miracle of being opened to notice
and observe.
what is it about places that render me so ...thorned and snagged like a patch being ripped from the quilt until it's nothing more than a stringy-edged square of fabric without a place to belong? You could sew the patch back into place, but the edges have frayed and the shape has changed. It would never fit the same.
it would need a new place
or perhaps my eyes need opened to notice and observe the beauty in place-less-ness.
or the beauty in awkward fits
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