This week, I was cleaning out my small third-floor loft. It’s a whimsical room with one tiny antique paned window with a view of tree tops, the Catskill mountains, and river. Sometimes I can see the moon. I am readying this cozy space to possibly be my new bedroom. It’s a place I write in, surrounded by ancestor ephemera and a stack of boldly printed fabric folded into squares neatly lining the wall. While cleaning off my desk I found precious things buried under piles of “save-it-for-later” stuff. I found my apple pie blue ribbon and a torn page from my journal written sometime early last year. The page was crumpled with black pen scribbled in prose as my thoughts landed on their own lines.