I can journal, and I can chronical, but to write creatively, I have lost all function. I think I can still do the time keeping because I do still practice it here sometimes. But I never was much of a creative writer to begin with, though I did once have an imagination to speak of. All of that seems to be gone right now.
Maybe that is part of the draw to Maine, or to the East somewhere were it is possible to have a piece of land with a forest on it. I don’t mean a pine forest. I am thinking of other species of deciduous trees. There are practical reasons, such as that they don’t tend to burn the pay the conifers do, and because they grow and fill in where one is chopped down, and I would like these such trees as a source for wood working material. But there is also the want to be in the forest, to get lost in the light and shadows, and to look and see only trees in every direction. That is a place where maybe I can get my mind back to where it was on the Gorse Hill in England, when I was learning about Lay Lines, Fairies such as Brownies, and House Elves. It was a place where Fairy Tales are born, and I got close to where I think I would have needed to be to let one out, but then we moved, and the Cathedrals, and the ancient cemeteries and overgrown forests were all gone, traded for a desert, where only goblins would take up residence and live out of sight of anyone else, yet still complain about the neighbors.
I see practical and farming reasons to want to go to Pennsylvania, but the part of me that looks to Maine sees creative reasons for going there. I know I would like to live in the original 13 Colonies, where the history of our country is still the newest part of the history of this land. The real question is, what do I want the next stage of life to really be? There is more to it than just Llama farming. There is growing the tale that wants to come out. It feels like that is going to be drawn out among the trees.