"The materiality of the writer's life cannot be exaggerated."
After college I pared down to what could fit between the doors of my green Focus with the racing tires and opinionated bumper. I had my little kiln, my wheel, and 100 pounds of clay. The spaces between were crammed with books, silks, scarves, pots I loved, and a Rubber Tree Plant that grew in my grandparent's house on Telegraph sitting shot-gun beside me as I took off down the road.
Now, cleaning for three, things cannot be abandoned with such ease. My house is full: skirts, boots, diapers; Saints and feathers, books and herbs. I've set down roots and my life is spreading. Now the road is a pathway, not a destination. I'm a housewife with chickens to feed, a baby, a dog, and a to-do list that goes on until eternity. It's a comfort, direction is something I'd hoped to find driving mapless across the East. This year I scrub my floors and wash my walls under the gold of my maples and know where I'm headed.
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