Fifth Journey Day 68: Fence-Stick Rhythm

Date: July 15, 2025
Location: Dilijan, Armenia

The road into Dilijan curved like a long, winding brushstroke — the kind you don't lift from the page until the whole shape has revealed itself. As we went down, it got quieter, and the colors changed. We saw dark green pines, browns that were not as bright, and blues that were like slate. My ears popped. My shoulders felt relaxed.

I walked from the minibus stop to the museum. It was hidden behind a hill and surrounded by small trees, as if someone had built a house inside a quiet, calm space. The museum was dim and quiet on the inside. There were no other visitors for the first twenty minutes. I looked at each piece carefully. I saw carved wooden combs, embroidered linen, and clay vessels with wide rims. I kept noticing the same pattern — a kind of broken diamond, two sides split, like wings paused in motion. I'm not sure what it meant, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.

There was a carved cradle with painted edges, but the paint was chipped in places. The blue dye had faded to a dry periwinkle color, the kind that disappears in strong light. I stood in front of it for more time than I expected. I thought of hands — lots of hands — putting things down, lifting things up, washing things, smoothing things.

I didn't take any notes. I didn't want to translate anything too quickly. I also noticed the angles of some woodcut lines and how certain stitches weren't symmetrical. It felt like listening without interrupting.

On the walk back, it started to drizzle. It was fine enough to make the air smell more like stone than rain. I saw a child dragging a stick along a fence, and I couldn't get the rhythm of it out of my head. It stayed in my head the whole way to the guesthouse.

Now, the clouds have cleared just enough to show the top of the hill. I left the window open. The air feels clean. Everything feels a little delayed — like it hasn't quite landed yet. And that feels right.