Sometimes I miss the woods and streams and bleak stone landscape of the winding canyon behind my childhood home so fiercely its as if I can feel the roots of those trees I knew by name twisting in my gut. I was always convinced my canyon was a magic one; that if I looked far enough, listened hard enough, sat still long enough…it would reveal itself to me. And in retrospect I think it did. Not in the form of faeries or special powers or anything like what I expected at 9 years old, but just in the quiet sense that I spent such a large portion of my childhood trying to communicate with a place, memorizing every cracked stone and leafless tree, that its as if I swallowed that canyon into my soul. It’s where I go when the world is too loud or when I feel I’m getting too far away from myself; I simply return to the canyon inside me, and I’m home.