An Object Portrait of Ms. Dervish
A Dervish, in a general sense, is one who has given up home for the universe. A wanderer wedded to devotion and the wilds of the collective.
But, of course, we are home. And so this dervish nestles in, longing for travels and surrounded by the ephemera and objects of adventures past. That particular sunset beach, fingers raking through sand. A late summer warm breeze ruffling exploded milkweed pods in a field. A cold urban walk, rusted nails pocketed from the sidewalks along the way (though it must be said, particular friends, knowing of the nail collection, also contribute their finds).
She smiles to herself as her eyes fall on a particular book, a world of memories; discovers a poem tucked in an old journal. Crushes a pinch of marigold petal between her fingers, releasing the scent. Fingering satiny lingerie bags — the provenance of any fine gentlewoman for her travels — carefully tucking in stockings and lace, at the ready for future adventures unknown.