I’m still trying to break my stubborn habit of sleeping late and missing too much of the morning, my best time to write. I worry that this might be a symptom of my too-frequent moods of melancholy and depression. But today I got up early, 7:30, and saw the sunrise gradually lighten the dark sky. Everything is silent now. Nothing is moving except the tops of the trees, heaving in the wind, then settling again. Rain is coming.
I love to write, love to have a pen in my hand, just to make marks on paper. When I write in my journal, sometimes I have nothing to say. I write anyway. Sometimes surprising things come. If there’s nothing to say, I write fiddle-faddle, just because I need to be writing something. I’ve had this urge to write ever since I was six years old and learned how. I never got over the wonder of it, making marks on paper, clean and sharp, that said things, that could draw the pictures that were in my mind, and tell stories.
My book is going slowly. I’m impatient. This is hard; it’s not flowing. It’s like cross-country skiing through wet cement. And yet, I marvel at how lucky I am, to be warm indoors, waiting for the rain. Hot coffee, cozy room, silvery sky and the sweet promise of the rain.
It begins now, very faint and misty, hardly more than a whisp of fog, and settling almost invisibly onto everything, refreshing the green living things and making them tremble with wetness and expectation.
I’m grateful for the life I have, even though it’s not all I want. Outside my window the trees sway gently in the winds– first harbingers of good hard rains to come, that trouble the branches of the little lemon tree and ruffle the trumpet-vine on the fence. The trumpet-vine would have bright red-orange flowers, but it does not bloom. Underneath the big oak tree, there is never enough sunlight on it, even on the brightest days. But it is beautiful still. It is being as beautiful as it can, where it is. It cannot move out of the shadows. But I can.