I’ve arrived at a point where I’m just typing, and taking it on faith that words will come.
We’re in the middle a nasty Nor'easter. Trees hunch with the weight of drenched leaves. Rain blows sideways. Last week, pine pollen wafted in a green mist through the upper skies, before coating everything indoors and out, with blond soot. Apparently, the amount of pollen was the note that came due for our snow-free winter, plus warmer-than-usual temps in early spring. Here in New England, we know deep in our guts, nothing that good ever comes without cost. In a proverbial, “half-full” moment though, I’ll express relief that this torrent is washing away all that sneezy grit.
A cold, wet afternoon like this, when there is nothing critical on the agenda, makes for a good day to wake up the old writing muscle. I’ve been editing for so long that a blank page waiting to be filled feels like a stranger goading me, rather than an invitation from a dear friend. I’ve accepted the challenge—but, since less than a molecule of creativity circles in my brain, as you can see, I’ve resorted to writing about the weather, which gets credit only, because it's less of a failure than failing to write at all. If I were in charge of the red pencil, I'd award the effort a D-, at best.
Like an out-of-shape athlete, the scribe in me needs a regimen of sit ups, push-ups and dedicated laps around the track, before it returns to good form. I expect it to fall on the grass, gasping, long before things come easily again.
Thanks for suffering through it with me.
