It’s been a pretty crazy few years and I am fairly sure everything I used to be has slipped into an oblivion. I need to rebuild.

Things are only as valuable as you make them. It’s all subjective. I’ve come to the conclusion that we seem to apply this to people as well.

A couple of days ago I made walnut ink. I had only done it once before and loved it, but I had only made a tiny amount, so I wanted to go for it and see if I could make enough to last the year.

Today I went into the forest to collect walnuts to make ink.

September is almost over. It may actually be over by the time I get this posted. That’s so incredibly strange to me.

It’s fitting that covid and my 55th year happened to coincide.