The path down to the studio from the house is a relatively short walk. It is a passage from a world where there is only the present time. The demands of the daily life do not enter there.

The path, a lush field of lupines and wild flowers beside grassy fields, cows and apple trees on one side and planned perennials on the other lead down to the small building half hidden by clusters of small birches and large, protective pines. My father’s high bush blueberries grow near the steps.

The birds and deer compete for them in late June.

In winter, snow covers the pieces of tile, marbles and shells my grand daughters have scattered along the path. The white shells light our way at night when I am down there too long.