"When everything else has gone from my brain ... what will be left, I believe, is topology: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way and that." Annie Dillard
Does it greet us on the springy, needle-covered paths that wind through the woods near here, the woods that are tempting me even now?
Maybe it lurks in vistas I glimpse from those woods, the shining waters of inlet and strait?
Right now it's coming from notes scribbled long ago, from yellowed pages and handwriting much like my own.
(Yellow leaves, yellowed pages.)
Labels: writing
posted by Anne Cassidy at
12:34 PM
I’m a writer and editor, the author of "Parents Who Think Too Much" and a freelancer published everywhere from the "New York Times" to "Woman’s Day." I’ve been scribbling my thoughts in one tattered notebook or another for most of my life, but this blog is the first time I’ve gone public. I'm glad you've landed here, and I hope you visit often.
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