journeys of a restless mind

I am thankful

For the slow brightening of the morning sky,
the crunch of my feet in the snow,
step by step, the quickening
of my heart when I walk the hill,
the easy laughter, the deer in the yard
and the street, unafraid,

the flapping of wings like heartbeats
rushing across the horizon,
the steady rise and fall
of the tide, of his breath, of the milky moon.

octoblog

This here interweblog is eight years old. That's like 123 in blog years.

If you care to see them, here are the first posts I ever wrote, back in Seattle when I'd just turned 40 and fallen in love (a dangerous combination).

When I began writing nina turns 40, Hijo was not yet in kindergarten, my hair was more pepper than salt, and I was not at all interested in the banjo. I took pictures with an Olympus C-4040. Hijo and I rented a small room in a big house on Capitol Hill.

I wrote for many months without any response. Back in those days, comments were not automatically part of the software, you had to install a third party system,which was beyond me at the time, so I wrote for my friends and family and my new love. When I got my first email from a reader, I was over the moon. (I'm pretty sure that reader was Cowtown Patty.) I was hooked.

Thanks to everyone who checks in here; thanks to those who nag at me to blog when I haven't for too long. Thanks for commenting, thanks for your own blogging which inspires me. This is the medium which got me writing regularly, got me my first paycheck from writing, and has provided me with many friends. It's been good to me and I will always love it.

the slog

We have entered the days that I refer to as the slog. It's dark. The streetlights came on at 3:22pm Sunday. It's not always so early, of course, even now. That just happens when there is a thick cloud cover, which is only, say, 85% of the time. The trick is to not give in to the thought that since it is November I must feel crappy. If I can keep my mind open enough, I might be surprised.

My mind really just wants to sleep all the time, though.

The slog is usually something that I just want to get through. But I have devised a number of tactics to battle the slog this year. They range from the physical to the creative. Singing at the top of my lungs whenever the mood strikes me has not been ruled out (except maybe by Hijo). I hope there will be dancing. Coffee, of course, is a basic weapon, as is wandering about outside whenever there is not a gale force wind.

The thing to remember about the slog is that always ends. It is no more permanent than your first love or summer or your own life. Which may or may not be comforting.