Every autumn, I spend three solitary weeks at Ravenrock because—this is my incapacity—I feel my depth best when ‘worldly’ cacophony is diminished. The most sensitive dimension of self /non-self eludes me unless I’m away from wifi, news, traffic, etc. Here is one of my Solitude Writings.
I stand looking at my closet. Behind the closed wooden doors are veils; I see them in my mind’s eye. I’ve been working brilliant, complex layers of dye into long panels of fine silk. Nestled on hangers, the fibers of these completed veils breathe through the colors I have brushed into them. They wait. They wait for their dancer. The friction of motion will burnish the threads, working the dye in deeper.