I forgot I was a blogger.
Life, sunshine, art, music - like a puppy down a rabbit trail, I’ve been sidetracked by anything that moves…or at least appears new and interesting. After a winter of hibernation, rest and rejuvenation, I’m off on the yellow brick road of one mini-adventure after another.
I’ve written a couple of poems, polished up an entry for a writing contest, hung a small art show and took another piece in for framing to go up for the last week of the show. I’ve repaired some photographs, written the first half of a screenplay and performed with the orchestra in a pops concert with two more coming up. I’ve tried designing my own book of prose and images with marginal success. I’ve spent time on the phone with my grandchildren. I haven’t used the new planner. I’m having too much fun.
Also, I ran out of things to pontificate about…well, not exactly. A ramble about the energy words carry with them is waiting to be finished up…and an exploration of the way we create. Pedantic subjects sounding as if they fill the measure of intention for this site. Not nearly as stimulating as sitting on the back step sucking in the scent of hyacinths until can’t recall why I went out there in the first place.
I’ve dug in the dirt and succumbed to the temptations of the garden store no matter how many years in a row I’ve promised myself I will not buy anything new before June. I sit in the rocker surrounded by color bursting out of plastic pots and feel like I’ve been given an intravenous injection of life. I’ve also been a captive in the cave of rain for so long I didn’t remember about sunburn.
We put weed block down last year and the squirrels used it to line their condo so I have to pull up what’s left. I watched them poke the black cloth into their mouths until their cheeks were full and it hung down in front and they almost tripped taking weed block up the tree. I am consistently amazed at the sheer genius of the little beggars. Somewhere, there is a luxury accommodation for this year’s accouchement.
It was comforting this evening to be sharing the twilight with birds back for the summer while I pulled weeds out of the rock wall. A blue jay lives in the Camilla. Somehow, I always pictured them as winter birds.
When I took a break for a few minutes and sat under the Empress tree, I couldn’t figure out what the stuff was coming out of the sky. Looking like black dandruff, it covered everything we’d so scrupulously painted white. A woodpecker was enlarging the nest from last year and throwing out miniscule chips. Sawdust changed to the gift of magic dust as it sifted down. Now, if I could just get him/her to clean my bathroom.
In other words - no pun intended - while I’ve been enjoying the process of creative energy itself, and soaking up the imagination of nature in spring, I’ve forgotten to write about the important stuff. I haven’t worried about whether or not my platform will hold up if the fairy godmother of all agents accidently stumbles over my blog or whether my work is strong enough to sustain scrutiny by the faithful writer friends who stop by to check the site - mostly to see if I’m still alive. They love me anyway and are used to, or becoming used to, my foibles.
Speaking of which, I add my gratitude for those same faithful friends who move in and out of my life in their own seasons. They bring dynamite and blowtorches because candles and matches are too tame for all the big ideas we have. They stand solidly behind me with support and encouragement for impossible dreams. They shove chocolate through the mail slot on the bad days and deliver veggie platters to help recover from the chocolate binges. I have wonderful friends. And, I think I have spring fever.
I forgot I was a blogger.