I'm looking back fondly on this Mallorcan farmstead (the color of the stone, I think, is part of the appeal), and knowing that I would have started my day with coffee and bread and cheeses and tomato, little pears or the melon with its almost-white flesh, sitting with pen and notepad in a courtyard with balcony and fountain.
I haven't yet reclaimed it in my writing; here has been much too demanding lately. But there is where my thoughts are, when allowed to drift and find their own course.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Mallorcan Farmstead
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