“Swing low, sweet chariot…” Chris begins his daily practice up in the loft while I claim our one and only table downstairs and begin to write, humming. He continues to get his fingers moving on the fretboard with “Wade in the Water,” warming his voice at the same time. I delve into my fable. I’ll need to light the oil lamp soon, as the sun descends. Every day I am regaled with live music as I write in our cabin in the woods. Lucky me!
For a spell, we work, each commenting, through our art, on the world around us. “Millions Mister” followed by “Dig a Hole in the Meadow” signal Chris’s transition to the hills of Southern Appalachia. “Funny,” I think. The theme of inequity echoes through my fable as well, though its setting is the Adirondacks. Our readings, observations and conversations truly create a symbiotic relationship and amplify each other’s work. We then filter the world and gently push back against it through our own medium. I pause the flow of writing for a re-read before persevering with my animal characters. Upstairs, my husband intones a new addition to his repertoire. “The taters they grow tall over there,” goes the Irish Ballad. This might be more than I can resist and I join in, aware that I’ll likely derail him. He doesn’t mind, though, most of the time.
Yes, our cabin is small, and we have to share the space, but that is precisely what enriches our creativity. Lucky us!
Time to light that lamp. There’s work to be done.