As I was drifting to sleep last night, I could feel a draft. The dark chill from outside sliding through gaps and old, poorly insulated walls. The kind of chill that settles down into the bones, and lays over the contracting, tightening ground. The earth prepares herself for the long, cold, rigid sleep, waiting for the cover of snow.
I have a love-hate relationship with this time of year. Left to myself, without responsibilities, I would be happy to move with the season, to curl-in. To blanket myself, move inward, and come Spring emerge brightly, more weathered, more mature, and more wise. Yet work, life, culture refuses to allow it. We must rise at the same time, keep the same pace, and pretend as though the seasons are nothing but a mere nuisance to lifestyle, rather than a rhythm we should follow.
(before the chill, obviously)
In point of fact, my life's pace has taken a frenetic turn just when I want nothing more than to fold into a pile of blankets and drink tea and think deep thoughts, or think nothing at all. Instead I've been gifted and burdened with a giant load of copy-editing with a whiplash deadline. No room remains for my own thoughts after 12.5 hours a day of staring at words on a screen, trolling for errors - hiccups in grammar, spelling blemishes, alignment problems and such. Attention to detail I rarely apply to my own writing.
Days like these I wish this were my only job. This blog. Inspiring you to write. Creating the space for it. Instead of it being a sideline hobby I can barely carve out time for, how wonderful it would be to just do this. I've thought several times of how this blog could support me, and have found no immediate answer. If you have one, share it would you?
I have a letter to write. Two in fact. With pen and paper. Letters to be slipped into the dark slot at the post office, waiting to travel to their recipients. And a package of cookies on its way to me from an old college Crew buddy. If blogs are dead, I insist on the revival of the hand-written letter!
I'm nostalgic, can you tell? Happens every year at this time. It's a New England thing. Or maybe just a Velvet Verbosity thing.
Your word this week, from my 1800's dictionary (with an interesting story), is:
Don't let this one go to waste word-nerds. (Yuk yuk, Lance is going to love that one.)