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I am UmberDove.

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.


A Week of Mornings


I fall in and out of habits; poached eggs for weeks on end, then nary a salted pot of boiling water for a month.  Stacks of stationary covered in my rolling scrawl, stamped and sent out on wings, then somehow, the realization that it has been too long since a single letter was penned.  And every time the same: how did I forget how much I loved this?
A questionable internet connection kept me from watching a based-on-a-true-story movie of a boy who quasi lived with a wolf pack in the Spanish wilderness.  We all seem to act so surprised when a human finds connection with a wild beast, but truly, doesn't that happen every day in our homes?  This house holds an inter-species collection of life; we form bonds, pack structure, jostle for position, preform our jobs, sleep together at night, and talk endlessly despite the language barrier.  I can not imagine my life with only humans for company.  I am too much animal for that much civilization.
These old windows swept my heart away at first sight.  The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of the studio were merely a bonus.  Days like this, when the rain tumbles down and only the rare crow lands on the roofline, I keep the studio toasty.  This shelter is a comfort.
In between the perfect croque madame and rustic tarte I was struck, yet again, with how brilliant these women are.  Two and half years of near hermitude was what I wanted then, and while it is a hard habit to break, their company lights a spark that only human contact can.
The first order of business, on the first step outside in the mornings is the frenzied squirrel-hunt-perimeter-check-ass-on-fire gallop around the property line.  Lately it's been chilly enough that I join the pups on that first loop, looking wild and frenzied myself, arms flapping when I run down the stone steps, bangs standing straight up, rubber boots thudding along behind them.
We rose before the sun illuminated the fog bank, filled steaming cups, and joined the line of blinking lights.  It could have gone so many ways, but stranded on the inner shoulder of the freeway with a busted water pump and two agitated pups was nothing I expected.  Still, we found the silver lining and managed to laugh, grateful it was here in the city, grateful for friends who drop everything to pick you up, grateful for a salvaged afternoon in the open wild fields with the sun on our backs.
The pan was hot, the onions sizzling, the kettle whistling, but this leaning tower of eggs too lovely to forgo.  Most days I consider myself to be a dandy chef, but on the others I'm... well, distracted by beauty.  Thank god the coffee was still hot and Bon Iver still played on the speakers.
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