To Blooming....

There are times when I feel guilty… not posting here. Times when I worry that each of you readers drifts away, leaves on an un-loyal breeze.

I do write though. Constantly. Sometimes only in my head… on scraps of paper, post it notes, in the car, here… in digital font.

The problem is this…

There are times in my life where I insulate myself, pulling into my internal world so sharply it seems sudden and foreign. I am sure that there are signs. A sign post we miss on the way. Usually it is this time of year when I stink of the indoors and crave the open fields of snowdrops and sunshine. I am sick of myself. Sick of the mediocrity of and hypocrisy of my work. The mundane to and fro of it all. The childish games my coworkers play. Tired of the road rage on the highway, the sheer panic people put themselves through, but for what?

It’s time for spring. And then we get snow this weekend. (What the hell?)

J. mentioned going away for the weekend to the Island. I had visions of the sand harsh wind of Tofino, cutting through the grime of my winter shell. Cutting down to skin, abrasive and alive. Revealing the fresh pink skin of promise. I almost could go swimming if it would steal my breath and make my skin tingle. You must know that feeling…

As a child I loved the water. Sneaking off on that first hot spring day to wade into the creek (against my mother’s warnings) coming home soaked and muddy. The cold was so deep it hurt to the bone. Then, numb, it would fade to an afterthought… if only until the walk home.

It is time to start running again. Time to find new paths, new inspiration. Time to climb out of the deep hole I have dug myself in. The insulation of love and domesticity… a false security.

This is what women forget when they couple. You cannot sleep, life does not allow for it. We must be a doe in the forest of our lives, constantly alert, smelling the breeze for change. If we sleep too long, life continues its evolution until we are slowly left behind. A relic of the vital we once were. Happiness makes us soft and forgettable. We even forget to remember ourselves.

Be a frozen lake, the dead lawn, the lilac tree stripped bare. Under that shell, there is life. Vital. Memorable.

It is time to unfurl..

It is time to feel the sting of living.

G.