As things get packed and loaded into the truck, yet again, the third move in twenty months, the experience of losing my home in Manhattan simply by the quirk of a ravenous appetite that is the disease of the city, and the long trek to find another, I reflect on this experience of dislocation and loss and then subsequent learning as only someone who always almost congenitally tries to make sense of ones life, one who compulsively patches together the oddments of her experience into a whole fabric of a life that she tells herself makes sense. I am more respectful of what others endure in silence. I am more grateful for my talent and persistence. I am more aware of how capricious people can be with no thought of the effects on others and the generous kindness of others in times of pain, and I am more in awe of this beautiful and surprising world, the Earth and her gifts to us that I have never taken for granted but which seem now more wondrous than ever.
Next week I will be in my Homestead, a new home on a beautiful site in Columbia County, a studio coming into existence and my work will continue. There is a book in the works, a photo series completed and paintings starting to bubble up. The past is over, the future is ahead and today, all is right.