If we examine every word as we write it, we will never complete anything. All we will have is a string of perfect words with no heart. – Deborah Levine Herman
The condensation on the farmhouse windows is thick today, as if the entire house is a shower with glass walls. The last steam of summer’s humidity coating the mountains. 
I am tempted to stay inside these walls today, to cower almost – overwhelmed by wedding plans and work and the way the dishes keep getting dirty. If I stay here, tucked into my tiny house, I whisper. Whisper so loudly that I cannot hear.
Yet, writing . . . living requires bigness, openness, the stretching of my fingers as I try to touch the horizons with the sworls and ridges that are only mine. It is not something to be done from a tiny living room.
So I will dress and put on muck boots and climb the mountain with the super pup. She will disappear into the ferns at the top of the hill, where a glacier, a tumble, a mysterious part of geologic history has laid out boulders like glitter. I will stand there and marvel – as I begin to even now – at the way this is mine and the way it is not. At how language captures so much and leaves the richest, most holy parts untouched. At how just forcing my hip flexors to carry my legs forward makes my shoulders drop and my back loosen.
I could stay here, hunched over these words with my fingers curved to try and find them, perfect them, polish them to something they cannot be.
Or I can step out with polka dots on my toes and a puppy at my heels and find language drifting by like pollen . . . or fairies.
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