This commences my life as a blogger. I've been weary of entering the blogosphere for eons only because I'm somewhat disorganized and often forget to follow-up on the many things that need doing in life. But, with more than a few pokes and prods and the loving support of those near and those dear, here I am. How shall I introduce myself? How shall I share bits and pieces of what needs sharing? This I do not know. So, it seems, I should start in the middle of things, from where I stand. Deep breath. Here goes.

One of my dearest loves is wandering the streets of cities both known and unknown. I look for the old in cracks on the sidewalks, on ancient windows- the sink and swirl of their glass, gaze at bricks laid one on top of another long ago. I attempt to transport myself into that city. What life would I live if this were my home? How would I be me? How would I be different? Who would I love and cherish? I look for what inspires my heart, inspires my fingers. I look for the crafty skills of makers and the signs of artisanal food. I love the quiet of my imaginings against the soundscape of the city. I love the possibility of connection with strangers, the fleeting bits of conversation shared. I love the options for transport, the common acceptance of being self-propelled, the fact that, for instance, so few residents of new york city actually own cars. Oh, I do love cities, the hot bed of chance, the act of life being lived so vividly, but I also love the rural life and everything in between. I could make an argument for each, no one more or less intriguing. Yet, when I travel alone, which is a rarity these days, it is a city that calls my name, a city that embraces me, sings me to sleep. On Thursday last, that city was the place of my birth. We had a short visit, not entirely dreamy, but one that brought me to my edge, that place where you feel the ache of what it means to be alive. Here are a few snippets of that city I love.