It was after midnight, and my ambitions of shooting "snowhenge" by the light of sparklers ran headlong into the reality of short-lived fireworks that died before my camera could focus. I was feeling somewhat let down, but I had a few very blurry shots that might be worth something, I hoped. Walking back to my front door I watched a car turn the corner and drive slowly past, stop, back carefully up, and pause so their headlights shone directly upon my little creation. They sat there just long enough for me to prepare to walk down to talk with them if they were so inclined, but then they drove away. There's a part of the not-quite-interraction that I like. They paused to look at the creation, not talk to somebody holding a beer and watching with perhaps just a little too much alcohol-fueled enthusiasm. Then they left. As an artist I often want to control how others see what I've done, demanding they interpret my creation not by how it affects their own emotions and experiences, but by the narrow confines of my own agenda. It's not a very realistic goal, and ultimately a work stands (if you'll pardon the pun in this instance) only if it can reach beyond the limits of my own imagination, and touch something in the lives of someone else. That the creators of places like Stonehenge not only did that, but that it still resonates many thousands of years later is a humbling, yet inspiring thing. That my creation made someone returning from a New Years' celebration pause, even for a minute, makes me understand what they were doing, and maybe hope that we aren't so different despite all of the years that separate us. Strange that the people who are inspiring me are thousands of years removed from my own time, yet somehow I feel as if sometimes the dreams they whispered into the night sky are still alive even now.