Where is January and the birth of a new year? I scrambled to keep up with the continuous unfolding of events: childhoods’ end, rites of passage, cataclysmic change, and looked up to notice it is August. The year now worn with months of days fully lived, wanes into Fall. I fall into tears of joy and anguish as I prepare to let go, to release my child into the world. Never mind the words of Khalil Gibran, “your children are not your children.” Even so, they move through our lives with such epic force as to bring us humbly to our knees and change us forever. Our hearts remain tethered no matter how far afield they go, the bond intact, unyielding.

Alone I turn inward to that familiar still and unmoving place, the one untouched by outward concerns, pregnant with infinite possibilities. A child moves on and art remains. Home.