So I woke up this morning weepy and depressed. I’d been working flat out for a few days, the kind of thing where you only get up from your computer to pee or scavenge for more chocolate (and maybe take a wine break at 7), and when I was done, the deadline having been met, I found myself far afield, having drifted out to sea, far from what makes me happy.
So Scout and I bundled ourselves into the Volvo, and didn’t even mind getting stuck between two giant trucks on the Cross Island—we were on our way out to L.B.’s: to the birds and the trees and the backdoor wedged open by the big white wooden block, and the occasional car going by. To the bright water always off in the distance, and the silence. To the flower petals on the ground, and the clover in the grass.
I’d like to make a pact with myself, and see if you want to do it too, to not let my job wash me away; to always be able to touch, from anywhere I might be swimming, the thing that makes me happy. For me, right now, this means the country; this blog; and practice.
Sorry I drifted off.