Fog crowds the border of my yard, muffled and soft-edged, isolating me like an island. I don’t mind the isolation, I never have. I have always needed those moments of being alone with my thoughts. The present world gets too much for me, sometimes. Spinning out stories, poems and essays untangles any confusion.

Like running a rope from barn to cabin to keep from getting lost in a blizzard, my writing keeps me from getting lost. It is the way I stay safe within myself. Some Native Americans believe in the seven directions—four compass positions, the heavens above, the earth below. But the seventh direction (and most important) is inward—into the territory of the heart and spirit. I go there in my writing.

As the ocean of mist seeps closer felting the silhouettes of the Japanese Maples, I open my journal.

Finally, the rain changes everything. Its staccato song, liquid and sloppy, the colors drenched, running into one another. Pulling on boots and finding umbrellas, I hurry outside. The clouds hide the mountains. It’s likely snowing up there. Winter has weeks to go I know, but I still hunger for sunlight—or just light.

I hear a well-remembered bird call, feel the lift in my heart. Am I the only one that knows the secret password for spring? My pansies don’t. They bow low to the dark, wet soil, winter-ragged and sad. The weatherman doesn’t. He tells me snow is on the way and winter still has a long way to go.

I believed him until I heard the peacock. I open my journal.