I’ve given up. There will be no writing this week. There will be, instead, a head cold, dental work, more tests on the creaky hip, appointments, and errands. There will be a PD day (no school for the kids). The laundry will pile up. The suppers will be uninspired. I will also decree some late-night tv watching. Why not?
As for today, as my face thaws nicely post-freezing-and-drilling, I’m going to recline on the couch under a blanket and sink into a book. It stops me feeling sorry for myself, which is the state of mind I loathe more than any other. Yes, it is February. Yes, the rain came and washed away the snow, and then the cold came and froze the slush into lumps of grey. And yes, the sky is the same colour as the lumps of grey frozen everything. And there are flocks of crows in the neighbourhood trees crying and calling. (Let’s call them a murder of crows; let’s put some poetry into our grey). It’s Groundhog Day; I don’t know whether the fat fellow saw his shadow, but if he did that means there was sun.
This too shall pass.
I can feel my cheek again. I can swallow this cup of coffee. I can read a good book. Oh, and it’s fiction — Let the Great World Spin. I’d forgotten (briefly) how much I need fiction in my life. Sure, I like learning new things and taking in facts and theories. But nothing is quite as true for the human soul as the world retold through the imagination. Bless the words.