A woman with horses...

It's interesting. I'm finding, increasingly, that words don't come. It's getting harder for me to find them, whether I'm writing, speaking, thinking. There's no rage, no windmills to battle, no great truths to write about. Just a growing sense of quiet. I'm not sure this is the same thing as peace. I don't always feel peaceful. There is inner turmoil, a struggle between the world of language, work and community, and my only clear, remaining desire to be alone in a place of quiet, with my horse in the mountains, walking my dog by the lake. Me, my horse, a dog or two. Walking in fields littered with the most beautifully configured dead limbs and trees. Tall grass. And wind. When I'm not there, my mind is there. For sure my heart is there. I've never been at ease in the world, but I always thought I was supposed to 'do' something in it. But it's hard to engage in the world when there is no struggle, nothing to conquer, with no real desire to 'do' anything or say anything. It's hard to construct a story out of nothing. A story requires words, so where are we when there are no words? Nowhere? Everywhere? I don't know. Sometimes I feel nowhere, like nothing, invisible. Sometimes I feel everywhere, totally connected, and everywhere I look I see the eye of god looking back at me. God looking at god. But I do know it's very hard to be in this body without a story, without words, a narrative of your life. I am....this... A woman with a horse who likes to walk in the mountains...