Lycanthropy

All bite, no bark.

The desert rarely softens, but when it does, the change feels holy. Rain floods and nourishes, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and chaparral.

Lately, I've felt a similar flooding shift within myself. Not sorrows, just quiet mercies. All tears are sacred. I let go of what has wilted, and it is washed from me. New faces have stepped into my life, and with them, a hush of companionship I hadn’t realized I was missing. Inspiration, too, has risen like stormwater, pulling me toward new creative opportunities. I feel as though I am being filled, drop by drop, with gratitude.

The same steady pour of energy has worked it's way into my sketches. I've been shaping several concepts on my tablet - sharp drafts that I long to translate into pencil, and then into watercolor. My process is unhurried, but the transformation feels worthy of October. A slow rite. Soon, I’ll head north, out of the desert, chasing cooler weather and the charm of true pumpkin fields. Perhaps this is what autumn means here: not leaves falling, but rain, moonlit friendships, and work that insists on becoming. Of wolves and rain -

Yours, Melissa