Tools for my trade…words that wring the Truth out of the why writers must write, a hand-spun pottery mug from a friend (it has a dent for my thumb), an hourglass with shimmering black sand to keep me on task, a stack of little journals I’ve half filled with ideas and thin places found, and layers of warm sun or moonlight…I can write anywhere, but I’m beginning to love my new spot. Maybe because there’s a balcony beside, and a fireplace and stuffed bookshelves behind me. Oh, and my writing chair is three steps away. None of these make me write, but they are like hands from the forest as I run half-blind down the trail following crumbs. Hmm…come to me, you wee voices and fill my alabaster pages.