As I get older, I get more impatient. I know that it's still winter. It's only the end of January, and it's still damn cold here in Michigan this year. I didn't even get to wear my in-between sweaters at all. Fall went so quickly. Now it's seventeen degrees outside.
Yet, I feel spring, just barely out of reach. The thyme in my garden lives under a blanket of snow just patiently waiting. It's my inspiration for survival. We are all trying to live under a blanket of snow.
I bake bread this time of year, I try to plan my garden. Writing.... writing is hard.
But last night I dreamed of Gilchrist my very favorite place to reset. Because of the pandemic, I have been gone too long.
The good news is that the writing group I belong to, Flint Area Writers has reservations for May. This is good news. It will be the first time I've been out of the city in too long. It will be four days to let the words run wild. I can't wait. So I'm setting a goal to get there. First, I have a few things to finish. There's that angel/demon sequel that keeps going on. Time to get that under control, and out. And I'd like to have at least twenty flash pieces done and out into the world by then. Then I'll be ready to sit in my cottage with my notebook, or to walk through the woods to find the new secret places that have grown while I've been away. Gilchrist, you are what I am living for.
I can't wait to see the meadow again. And to be able to step outside of myself for a fewdays , and see what new stories are waiting