Stories are like highly sensitive, timid creatures; during times of stress and chaos and insecurity, etc., they all run and hide. Not a peep, even if you call them, try to coax them out. Eventually, you’ve no choice but to abandon your search and focus on the work at hand, hope they’ll eventually come back ’round.

Then, as things eventually settle back down, and there are once again substantial periods of peace and serenity and stability to be enjoyed, they slowly venture out of hiding and back into view, soon crowding around you wanting to be fed and petted. Once in awhile, one of them will jump right up in your lap, demanding your full attention. It’s so awesome when they do that!

Some of them are ugly, some are gorgeous, some in-between; but you love them all, try to nurture each in its own way, and just hope you can manage to keep them around long enough to do sketches of them, paintings of them, sculptures of them, which you can keep forever and share with others.

But when my boat was fairly heavily rocked earlier this year, they all scampered off and vanished into hiding, where they stayed for the duration of the summer, as I’ve worked to stabilize things long enough to try to entice them back out into my world.

And finally, yesterday I began to catch glimpses of some of them out of the corner of my eye, lurking in the shadows. Perhaps over the next week or two, they’ll start venturing back out of hiding, and with any luck, soon we can once again all play together—at least breifly—like old times.

I can only hope…

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