Writings by: Rita Sims Quillen

So now it’s winter again yet sunrise and sunset make us forget so stunning the color spraying from ridges. In the icy clear brittle blue air above, the mountain greys like a grandmother, death strolls close by—the mundane maudlin. It would be fitting to go then. But you left in…

She would have loved a creek bath but didn’t dare, only chuckled at the saucy thought. That wasn’t what the term meant anyway. In Japan it’s called shinrin yoku her daughter said, forest bathing, where you go to the woods to renew to soothe, to relax, to change on the…