I’ve started three blog posts in the last month, only to abandon them halfway, the intense content eclipsing my drive to write; causing me to pause, only to start a new post the next week.
I wouldn’t call it writer’s block necessarily…it feels more like writer’s overwhelm. But the need to write is bursting. Like restless legs under sheets at night, or a pot of pasta foaming over on the stove.
Writing is how I receive the world; a filter through which rational thoughts land and shuffle.
So today, I choose summer… letting it take over; grateful and unrushed. As is.
Summer is dark strawberry curls
a freckled arm grazing the spray off the wake.
quick to experiment with the line between
innovatively precocious and disrespect; a true teen.
It’s an overflowing planter box on the deck; tall tomato plants tangled
with twisty sweet pea vines.
Mid-morning sun filtered through heavy leaves,
the smell of tree blossoms still lingering.
Summer is lazy afternoons
My boy and his dad. Snuggled chest to chest over the years;
same chair, more grey, same hearts.
proving that lack of genetic material is quickly
obsolete in the presence of strong love.
My feet pounding ground in the early morning.
Watching the sunrise over my shoulder at the top of the city.
Choosing to run before the heat of the day threatens
to choke out my mid-forties endurance, only to fall exhausted onto the steps- breathing in sweet bird song and feeling once again the anxiety tampered down.
This world is heavy
super-charged politically and
full of traumas and injustices to rally against
And someday I’ll finish those posts.
But today is summer.
*** If you didn’t see my post last week on this book, here it is. A History of Wild Places feels like bottled summer. It’s a love letter to life in the woods, delicious descriptions, and good fiction. I highly recommend it.
Teaching the Good Stuff 