I’m supposed to be writing a post for Alex Cavanaugh's Insecure Writers’ Support Group today. I did, in fact, have one partially written. When I woke up this morning however, I didn’t feel like being insecure. I felt instead, like being…restful.
I have plenty of insecurities, writing related and other. But today, a bird outside sings in a quick-time rhythm, the moss we need to scrape off the patio glows a brilliant Kelly green, and I don't need a scarf under my fleece to stay warm inside. A school bus pulls up to pick up the girl across the street, a stack of commuter cars lined up behind it. The creeping phlox on the ledge in back is starting to bulk up, and although the neighbor’s fence is still falling down, the one stalwart daffodil that blooms every year stands tall.
There is a bowl of warm oatmeal, dusted with brown sugar, sprinkled with raisins followed by strong coffee in my near future, with a good plan for the day to follow. The cat is fat and happy.
Sometimes a little focus on the small things can turn the proverbial tide. Today I’m switching things up and calling this an Insecure Writer’s Surge of Gratitude.