Time has slid into the New Year. It is December 30, the day before the turning and the sun has been a steady presence since just past 7:30 this morning. The past ten days or so I have been quiet, some cold or flu trailing on and sapping me, I didn’t feel bad exactly, but drained, de-energized, fallow. As if I was swallowed by the gray short days. Whatever I read felt lackluster, whatever I wrote even more so.
But beginning just yesterday I find I am waking again. There is a sense of moving forward, a desire to read, to fool with watercolors, to again pick up the pen. Yesterday, I went to the library and filled a bag with books, like the proverbial kid in the candy store: poetry and novels, essays and travel. A grocery bag full of words and possibilities.
I am remembering my dreams, jotting down snatches of words, I am ready to start again. I am thinking I needed to get empty. No more waiting, it’s time to pull my chair up to the table and work.
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