Moonglow; rabbit tracks; Oldemors lemon cake; twenty-eight inches of snow in five days; illness; candlelight; knitting mittens (May Breezes); cardinals, bluejays, juncos, and titmice at the feeder; fuchsia cactus blossoms; afternoon naps; the daily round of laundry and vacuuming and school lessons; tangled thoughts; bone-deep weariness; dreams of spring gardens and creativity . . . deep winter days. : )
Today the sun is shining and the temperature is in the sixties. The snow has turned soft and gray. Most of it has melted now, leaving behind a sea of mud for the dogs to track into the house. All signs predict an early spring. I'm not sure how I feel about it, especially since the trees don't burst their buds around here until the end of April. An early spring just seems like a lot of anxious waiting for something to happen, and I've had enough of that in my life. I don't want promises; I want to get on with things.
One of the things I am waiting for is the creative urge to strike. Ideas flit in and out, but nothing takes hold. I am attracted to a wide variety of things and have always been more of a polymath than a specialist. I like to write, draw, paint, garden, bake, sing, photograph, knit, sew, read, and study nature and theology, but lately I don't have a taste for anything. At this very moment, I am unable to read, which is very frustrating (this happens to me periodically--some kind of hormonal imbalance, I think). I want to do something, make something, learn something, but what???
Of course, life itself is creative. Breathing, moving, eating, working--each moment we are transformed and becoming something new, something we weren't quite in the moment before. Mothering is an intensely creative act. So is tending and caring for any living thing. I don't like the way people use the term "wild/wildness" today. I see it as another crippling psychological message born out of a movement (neo-paganism). I do not believe that "wild" is better than "domestic" or "tame", nor do I believe that "wild" means "free". Anyone with a dog, cat, rabbit, bird, guinea pig or chickens knows the truth about domesticity, wildness, and freedom. What matters is simply life; its variety, unity of purpose, and glorious movement. Life itself is wild . . . and also domestic. Real love sets us free to become ourselves.
*When I write (and I haven't in a while) the title of a piece matters. If it isn't right, it can paralyze my entire process. (I stopped using titles on blog posts because of this.) Since shutting down "Home Hum", I've lost my impulse to blog. "Bird & String" never felt quite right to me. That title was a grasp: I like birds, I like to knit . . . thus. Now, this title: "Inklings" came to me in the early morning light. I woke up with it nestled in my heart.