She wants to climb the fences. First, it was the skate park. Could she do it? The throws of adrenaline that she must have felt climbing higher and higher, as i pretended not to look on, my heart pounding, the half pipes and rails seeming miles beneath her.
am tuning in to the rhythm of my own creative process. I am learning character from Hemingway and style from Didion, delving into wildness with cheryl strayed and sitting peacefully on the fences of British churchyards with Bill Bryson. I am asking myself the traveller’s questions of Pico Iyer and am suddenly indebted to Flannery O’Connor and Eudora Welty for their courage and bravery to get up every morning and write.
When I returned home from walking the dog last night, the dusk had turned to dark.
BUT THE THINGS THAT REALLY HELPED ME THROUGH THE GRIEF WEREN’T THINGS. THEY WERE PEOPLE.
I prance around my kitchen, dancing to my loud, wild drum beats. The six year old is at the neighbor’s and the husband’s out for a drink. I inhale deeply, breathing it in. Life.