Dear Family and Friends,

Driving home from Jonesboro, Tennessee last Sunday night the moon rose in front of the dark highway as a spherical golden globe of light. The sight of it nearly took my breath away. I wanted to stop the car, but as it was I continued to drive into that full moon. I wanted to roll down my car windows and make sure everyone on the highway was watching...making wishes...just letting it's beauty surround and enfold us.

As I kept driving, I ached to have my feet touch ground..dirt, earth, soil, broken leaves instead of the concrete and steel that kept me at a distance of what I wanted. I read once that we should touch the earth each day with our feet..we need to go off of our paved driveways and sidewalks and let the earth move through the soles of our feet.

Maybe it was the magic of the Storytelling Festival in Tennessee...tents on hills..cobbled streets...vendors...storytellers...listeners...once upon a time..happily every after..laughter..crying..thinking...hoping.

The festival continues to be a mecca, a journey for storytellers everywhere. We meet once a year and the air is charged with those who share a love of story for many different reasons.

Ellen and I drove down together to share once again our travels as Thelma and Louise...lottery tickets and M & M's at every stop.

Philip was there to meet me to share in the events as well. It was a cold week end up in the mountains. Each night found us wrapped in winter coats and muffled with hats and mittens. But we are die hards and do not, will not give in to the elements.

It was short. Time always is. We said our good byes, once again...turned to drink in all the beauty of the mountains and came home to Indiana to go right into the Hoosier Storytelling Festival in Indianapolis.

Again, folks in Indiana welcomed tellers from around the country as we kept up the 19 year old tradition of the Storytelling Festival in Indiana thanks to Ellen. She works tirelessly to strengthen this old tradition in our state.

When the boys were little, they went with me and helped sell popcorn and set up chairs. I would love for them to go with me again as an adult and let them feel the magic. Some things still don't change..we tell stories..we set up chairs, light candles, drive around the guests.

Again it was cold as we bundled up and shared stories in tents...or late night jams...or early morning vignettes...once storytelling seeps into the marrow of your bones, it is there forever.

Finally it was time to come home...home to bills that have sat for a couple of weeks...laundry...household chores...unpacking...quietness. It is always difficult to have the quietness again after having my life full of people...

My footsteps echo in my hallways as I light acandle...pour a glass of wine...haul suitcases upstairs (for a brief time!)...

Quietness
Loneliness
Time to think
Time to dream
Time to remember
Time to work

This fall has been rich. My family from the four corners has all been together...Philip has visited...friends have gathered for stories. Yet to come is the promise that all my children will come home for Thanksgiving, a tradition that continues even though we are so far apart.

Outside my window, fall is bowing deeply, wanting an applause for her beauty, wanting us to fiercely walk among her colors...on the earth..on her broken leaves of russet and ruby and tangerine and apricot.

So, for this evening deep into the heart of Autumn, pour a glass of red wine, listen to a lovely piece of music...look deep into the eyes of someone you love, and tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, walk heartily on the earth.

As a final memory, a few years ago a wonderful storyteller, David Novak, closed out our Hoosier Festival. It was late on a Sunday with the wind blowing the leaves across the top of the tent between dappled sunlight. He left us with this poem.

Spring and Fall. To a Young Child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Ah! As the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, not spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie,
And yet you will weep and know why.
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Author: Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844-1889

Love to all,
Lou Ann

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