I remember years ago going on daily walks in my neighborhood. In those earlier years I grew to love photography and writing. Often my greatest inspirations were on my very own streets winding through houses and gardens. (These are the days before I had a car)

I would observe and take in everything as a possible creative opportunity. This keen giddiness to create and learn led to many horrid photo’s and poems. But many many more good ones. You see the beat up dryers in the front yard and stop sign may not be fine models for a professional photographer, but in my young heart it was the best beginning grounds. Starting with what I had. I loved filling my brain with the colors, sight, and sounds.

There was the house that always smelt like gain washing detergent and the house with the macaw that you would hear endlessly squawking.The houses with gnomes (mild lil kid obsession) and the houses that always had christmas lights on year round.  

This is my home, not because my house is here. But because these streets are mine. I’v walked them a thousand times. I’v cried over lovers and rejoiced as I learned to ride a bike. I watched a storm rain on either side of my drive way but not on mine. I have seen my daddy work on cars and seen my sister bring home her babies from the hospital. This is my home because I know the people with the wild jungle of a back yard and the owners of the dog down the street that always seems to be getting lose. Yes it may have took all those magical childhood memories of the farms in Tennessee or the wild romping’s of europe to realize this is where my heart is. Although I will always ALWAYS roam this wild earth. This is where I will always return too.