Early morning; the hour before dawn. And the house is silent; the cedars dark shapes and stillness under their weight of snow.
And here am I, words at the ready, (now formally) writing another book. The sense of propulsion and purpose, an idea unfurling into its essence. All these living ideas, assuming their shape.
Unlike the Imagining Toronto book, which announced itself like an architectural edifice, this new project is taking shape in a different way. It unfolds like something fully organic. The pieces of it stir and rustle against one another, and it is hardly a surprise to see that they are green.
My hands in the soil; the smell of earth. That green universe; the one I have always waited for, drifts outward and opens a little.
I look up, and suddenly the sky is filled with light.