she asks

Despite editing, writing, knitting; despite lattes with a friend, grocery shopping, movies, Downton Abbey (don't even ask me about Matthew!), fb, text messaging, books to read, pictures to take, walks, dark chocolate, poems, I'm somehow feeling that this is a contemplative simplified time. This winter teases with springlike days and freezes with extreme winds and deep mountain cold. Perhaps it's the meditation practice I'm back into. Just once a week for two hours, but it's making a difference as the weeks pass. At least I think it's that. Or maybe I've moved into a different phase...just because. It's hard to tell and I'm not going to force an answer, just keep going round with the occasional unexpected thrust in a slightly different direction. I'm trying to regain acceptance and mindfulness. Notice more. The way white tree trunks look against a blue sky and adobe. The rosehips on the gravel in my friend's otherwise stark winter driveway.

I asked myself recently, why do I write? And let the answers flow as I scribbled in my notebook, thoughts moving faster than hand (hence the scribbles). First reason? I like notebooks and pens. Do not feel daunted by the blank page. Love to fill them, even with junk - and hope for the emergence of a few shining nuggets . I can be on my own schedule. Nobody is forcing me do it. There are things I need to speak of with someone who understands ~ namely, myself. I like coffee shops, lattes with foam and designs in the foam - a leaf, a heart - fleeting gifts. I write to deal with joy and loss, longing, vague pain and emptiness - explore why there is emptiness. I want to tell it slant (like Emily) and honest and that takes a lot of ink. It is a way to pin down the huge temptation to slip into fantasy and the desire for a soundtrack to my life. The words are a soundtrack I guess. No clipped montage will take me to some place I long to be. And occasionally, when all the elements converge, I can board an airplane or take a road trip to manifest something more  tangible. Like Rome or London, Durango even, San Francisco - or once, Paris and a Left Bank bookseller's extensive Betty Boop selection...

Chance is always powerful.
Let your hook be always cast
in the pool where you least expect it.
There will be a fish.
     Ovid