I’m tired, very tired. It’s been fewer than ten hours since I went to sleep and more than four since I awoke. In between I dressed and waited, went out, and waited, ordered a meal, and waited. It seems all I’ve done since friday is wait.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon sitting on a mat, trying to derive some use from a yoga class focused mostly on the metaphysical. From the end of the first slow, sweatless set of motions to the last few numb and aching kneed minutes of seated meditation, I was ready to leave.
This has been an odd sort of weekend, somewhere between lackadaisical and peremptory. I haven’t had much to do, yet I’ve had my schedule tug me along like an anchor skipping the bottom. No time in between appointments to do much, yet not much to do for the appointments. It’s like the last few minutes before getting up, knowing the alarm is coming but refusing to let got of the final five, or three, or one minute left before the noise makes pessimistic portent reality.
The sky is pretty and it smells like spring outside. The snow has melted from all but the shadowy spots. I’m starting to grow impatient for spring. Soon, I’ll start my seeds. This week I’ll give the rose bush its long overdue cutback, from which I’ll save a dozen or so cuttings for cloning.
My herbs have all started dying and I can’t find the cause. They’re easy enough to replace, but gone are my dreams of an all year, movable herb garden. At least the mints remain. There will always be mint.
Several new writing fronts, no news on any old submissions. This will be a busy writing week, I feel like I haven’t done it seriously in ages. Some time beyond short term memory, but given the faultiness of mine, that time could be anything from three days to two weeks. Either way, it’s time to pick a story and dig back in.
I think there’s no more avoiding it, it’s time to do those long delayed Life in a Glass House edits. Wish me luck, I mayn’t surface anytime soon.