I should have the internet closed down and have all my books open. I should be writing a critique comparing the movie The Shootist with the book by the same name. Or I could be writing the manuscript pages that are due this week. There are always the pages of folk tales to be read and commented on but somehow....here I sit. Other thoughts swirl in my head and other words itch to be spoken.
No, I am not a political activist. Though I know what is right and what is wrong I am lacking in the ability to think on my feet or express myself clearly without a great deal of thought and preparation. Nor am I a great apologist. I know what I believe and I am able to explain those beliefs and tell them to others. But alas, again I am not an off-the-cuff speaking kind of person. My brain is incapable of those kinds of acrobatics. No, my forte is poetry and prose of a more creative nature. I can look at a summer day and express it in language that paints it on the canvas of the mind so that those who cannot see with their hearts may catch a small glimpse of the majesty of God.
Still I sit here with the words backed up at the tips of my fingers. It is as if the sun that is shining today, the crisp flakiness of the croissant that I had for lunch and the sharpness of the chlorine in the pool this morning have all worked like a catalyst to loosen whatever has been stopping my mind up until now.
And so I gaze out my window and see, not the drab brown of winter, nor the melting of the snow. No, I see the shades and tones of the colors of fertility as I look at the browns of the fields waiting for the warmth to wake them to their potential. Instead of the cold snap in the air that used to tighten my joints and slow my mind I feel only the briskness of the breeze that cleanses the old and brings with it a promise of something new.
And I pray that this change may stay with me and keep me moving forward toward healing and the next adventure.