Once there was a girl who grew up in a house on a hill. She ran barefoot through grass, sat on the roots of trees, ate sand once but stopped (not because it didn't taste good), brought home stray cats, and traveled her domain with a dog at her side. She chased snakes and ran away from frogs and squirrels.

When she came indoors, she drew all her adventures in a notebook. Sometimes she was the hero, and sometimes it was a cat, or a dog, or a pony. She thought she should be an artist. Then she learned about music. She played the violin, the piano, and the flute, and dreamed of one day playing in an orchestra. Music seemed to bring worlds to life. She could hear a song or an instrument and saw people and places, and their stories played out in her mind.

And so the girl grew up into a woman, certain that music was to be her calling, or perhaps art, until she realized that neither was quite right. It was never really about the playing or the drawing. It was about the stories woven with every note and line. Finally, the woman knew her place in the world.

The young woman still draws her adventures. Sometimes she is the hero, and sometimes it is a little girl, or a boy, or a dog, or a stray cat (she still brings them home). Though she no longer plays, she enjoys music, and listens as worlds are born. Sometimes she sits on the roots of trees, fondly watching over the squirrels, and keeping a wary eye out for frogs.

And sometimes she eats sand. Just a little bit.