Holding a camera in my hands. Sitting near a cracked-open window with a steaming cup of tea; especially if it is raining, or especially if it is dawn. The space on the shoulder of someone I love. Bodies of water. With a cat sleeping on me. Street-art-covered fragments of city.
The exact spot where Winter sunlight finds my face and I can stand still for a breath or ten minutes, eyes closed, sunflower smile. Bent over my guitar. Following a mountain trail. Pavement and winding streets to explore in running shoes.
A forest with trees older than I will ever be, and that will exist long after I have gone. Views that quietly break my heart open wider. The first week of Spring. The space at my desk where the writing happens. A summit, and the wide expanse of the world below.
Bookstores and libraries of any kind. Going on walks. The beaches that taste of childhood still, of roots and of salt-covered memories. Watching a storm. In front of a painting that has me quiet and still. Spanish-speaking anything. Dive bars and food places where I have a standing order. A blank page, the faint tendrils of a story. Climbing on rocks and balancing on mud-drenched logs. The kitchens of people I love. Sunsets.