We woke this morning to a thin coat of ice on every surface. I was exhausted but wandered the field paying attention to how the ice covered every pine needle and piece of gravel, listening to the way my feet crushed the frozen grass and leaves. I meandered from pond to wood pile, mail box to compost, Chinese chestnut to black walnut. The shifting light of the day kept me engaged and as always at this time of year the sunset took me by surprise. As if the question already was waiting in the wings, more important than the answer now?
A life of making isn't a series of shows, or projects, or productions,
or things: it is an everyday practice. It is a practice of questions
more than answers, of waiting to find what you need more often than
knowing what you need to do. Waiting, like listening and meandering, is
best when it is an active and not a passive state.