A red brick Presbyterian church... captured by kudzu vines as surely as a butterfly in a net.

There is a need to find and sing our own song, to stretch our limbs and shake them in a dance so wild that nothing can roost there, that stirs the yearning for solitary voyage.

There is a need to discover that we are capable of solitary joy and having experienced it, know that we have touched the core of self.

There is a need to find and sing our own song, to stretch our limbs and shake them in a dance so wild that nothing can roost there, that stirs the yearning for solitary voyage.

The hot, moist smell of babies fresh from naps.

It's just a plain, white church.