My son made it through surgery. It was close, risky, and for two long days I rode an emotional roller coaster I couldn’t step off. But we made it through. He’s recovering, and the world feels steadier under my feet again. There’s still healing to do, but the air finally feels breathable.
This morning, I opened the door at the top of the basement stairs and stood for a moment before going down. It was the first time I’d been to the studio since before Zine Fest. The air was still, the light a little dusty, and everything was just as I’d left it: piles of paper, stacks of printed chapbooks, leftover sticker cuttings scattered like breadcrumbs leading back to my desk. At other times I might have felt frustrated to face the mess before I could make anything. Today, it made me happy. It’s familiar. It’s mine. All I need to do is pick things up, put them back where they belong, and let the quiet work its magic.
I haven’t been able to produce much these past couple of weeks, but I’ve had plenty of time to think and plan. Ideas kept forming in the corners of my mind like new shoots waiting for sunlight. There’s a zine I want to start first — something small, a way to ease back into creating — and then I’ll turn my attention to Magical Appalachia: The Calling, aiming to get the illustrations far enough along for a new PDF release. If time allows, I’d like to print one or two new chapbooks before the end of the year, and maybe a winter storytelling sticker collection, just because I still love making them.
And tonight, I’m looking forward to something as simple as a home-cooked meal. The hospital food wasn’t bad, but I tended to pick what smelled comforting rather than what nourished me. Too many drive-through dinners, too many quick calories grabbed between visits. My body is craving color again — a Buddha bowl, a stir-fry, something bright and made with care. The kind of meal that reminds you what “home” tastes like.
I could probably sleep for a whole day, but being back in the studio feels like waking up. The smell of paper, the hum of the computer, the promise of stories still waiting — all of it says life is finding its rhythm again.
Hello, studio. It’s good to be here.
Thank you for reading. If you’d like to keep following the threads of what’s unfolding here — in stories, sketches, and the slow return to normal — I share more over at my Realmscapes Substack Dispatch, a sort of letter-newsletter I send each week.
This week’s post was written from the in-between space: torn between the hospital and the studio, between worry and hope, trying to find meaning in both.
→ Read the latest Realmscapes Dispatch on Substack
And if you’d like to see where those stories eventually take shape in paper and ink, you can wander through the Zines Collection at Studio Second Street.
