The collection and meditation is not comparable, in any slightest consideration. What it has me deliberating and considering for my story, for the collective narrative of my family and everything around me— People ask me what I write about and if I write about wine and I answer yes but it’s more than wine I’m putting to page. It’s each minuscule wind shoe, each cut cane on the ground, each color in the sky, the cloud patterns and shapes, art… my face being gently lipped by the ambient ballet, invisible but definitively tactile, a lover with me that I’ve always known there and she wants me to have more of such intersections….
Co-worker walks in and I share the photo with him. He liked it, as I hoped, and we shared our love for the property. That defines wine more than wine defines itself. What I write about, wine but not— the air, the people and their stories, the dirt and rocks around the vine bases and my deductive thought cascade for going out there rather than just hurrying here to write.
Looking uphill, and sleeping plants, the cloud Cubism…. I’m in love. With her. All about her, grinning back at me, and in a whisper, “Aller de l’avant…”