Dec. 31, 2015 Circle, The Year Ends and Begins, Like Me, Like You

I have spent the last year sifting and sorting every part of my life: preparing to immerse myself in all the throes of the digital world, the social media, the technology of real estate and the world, the sense of economies, large and small, the wonder of grasping the identification of generations, the erosion of our city by the gold miners who have always been here taking different shapes and names but always skimming and scheming and digging and leaving large gaping holes in which they sometimes make their getaway and leave us wondering what happened? And as I fall through the mist of tears and joy, as I read old love letters and cherish all the photos I have taken on all the streets and in the villages and of the trees and favorite places and people, I hold my hands to my heart in thankfulness. I will not land. And as I go from place to place on different levels, there are some places I want you to see both then and now, either or both, from the world where I have placed them. The Archives.Is this real estate? Nothing could be more of head and heart than this home called Charlotte, my beginning. I will start at the one such beginning for me. Matthews Market. In the heart of Matthews by Renfroe Hardware. The market is where I begin my week that starts every Saturday morning rain or snow or sleet  and the only thing that keeps me away is severe illness or being out of the country and even then I am at a market somewhere if only in my heart and soul. The market is the end and the beginning. The final fruit is brought for us to nourish our bodies and in this doing, my spirit, our spirits, are nourished. I firmly believe I am alive today, healthy today from all the ravages of chemo-therapy, radiation and surgery and resulting side effects of each by the food raised, planted, grown and tended by these gentle folk. Two days ago, camera in hand I went to the marketplace. Still amidst the bustle of Matthews. Still and yet, I can hear voices, the songs of market. Still, though I can see, the people I know scurrying from vendor to vendor, chat with the volunteers, see the farm children grow into adults, see the swales of new and old visitors and when it is finished, the stands and tables and simple signs and the billowing tents remain and the dirt and gravel grind beneath my boots and a tall tree stands over all reaching her boughs high and her roots deep. This is me.
 I am the tree and this is what I bring you.