What does it mean to take what is given to you and make of it an altar, a sacrament, a map?
This is what I see – each of us is born into our own world which we populate with myth as we grow, our villains, our heroes, the tasks we must undertake to become human. Writers explore how our worlds evolve, a masque of good and bad that turns.
Some in this world find their place by action, the hills climbed or the election won. Some in this world find their place by medicine, the gardens that flourished or the child stitched. Some in this world find their place by tea, by ant, by cloud, by pavement, by word.
What does it mean to find yourself mid-way through life and understand that either you put your map to paper and follow it or you are willing to let others define your compass?
Words link together into paths, into roads, into mountain ranges. Words into sea. Words into houses. Words into bone. Into dazzle. Words into map.