A sign beside the sidewalk begs, "don't give up". I feel strong, but worry wears itself on my brow. It is beautiful up here, houses of varying styles with plants aplenty. Every home has a glorious view, and I peek between them, straining to see what I am not meant to afford.
Two midcentury modern homes stand out from the crowd. I imagine myself living within them, one for art making and one for entertaining an eclectic group of friends. I fall into fantasy of what the life of an artist should be but never is. I am thrown back onto the street where I stand, to continue walking. This is the artist's real life. It is not luxurious or full of absolute whimsy. It is a drive that goes on in spite of anything that would try to stop it. The maker makes, no matter the circumstance.
Lost in self analysis and willful wanderings, a doe approaches from the adjacent slope. I stop in my tracks and gasp, for chance encounters such as this should be cherished. I am quiet and watchful, camera up to eye. I know the moment will be fleeting. I think to those who hold guns up to such beautiful creatures, and no amount of explanation will allow me to fathom why. In a residential area, this animal passes through what once belonged to it. Run away friend, find a place of refuge.
I wander the hills wanting to get lost but knowing I will always find my way. The more I step, the more ground I cover. The more ground I cover, the more I am firmly planted here.