And by that, I mean an artist. One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.
Last week I packed up the tent, the Pup, kissed BC, the kitty boys and the Girly Dog goodbye and took myself camping. Here, high on the northern California coast, there is no shortage of gorgeous camping spots but we drove to one of my very favorites. Nestled in among the old growth sitka spruce and coastal redwoods, high on the cliffs above the pacific, we pitched camp. The air held the bite of the ocean and at times we were chilled with mist and rain, but when the sun burned through that marine layer, every good, damp thing shone. We ran on the beach at low tide; Sancho dragging every stick of driftwood he could find, me filling pockets with slick pebbles and beach agates. At night we spooned together in the tent, Sancho snuffling under two blankets while I read by headlamp until I couldn't keep my eyes open a second longer. Morning brought hot coffee, rice porridge and flocks of stellar's jays all vying for left-overs of anything at all. I climbed a high trail along the cliffs and sat for who knows how long, lost in the crash of waves and the expanse of sea, one of those times when there are no words, no sketches, no stories, just a roar that fills the heart. And then, with sap on my sleeves and hair scented with camp smoke, we came home.
But we'll be back.
