Another spring is floating by, much of it, unobserved. I'm sitting behind my desk, staring out the window, and watching the sun warm the lawn. It brings the pink and purple buds of flux and tulips to life. A robin and a wren fight over a worm at the bottom of the porch. But that's all I see. Just what can be observed from behind my desk.
Michael went to Lowes this morning. Without me. He'll come back with a trunk load of topsoil and flats of whatever flowers look pretty to him. He takes pride in his yard, trimming it to perfection, and coaxing plants and flowers to their maximum potential. I used to do that, too.
Last year, I sat at this same desk overwhelmed with getting Southern Fried Women finished and launched. We did it, though. It's up for two, and shhh (possibly three) national awards. It was my "first child." Now here I sit, once again. Birthing a "second." But this one is different.
The manuscript is long. I spend hours and hours pouring over each page, paragraph and sentence. If one didn't love this kind of work, they'd run from it. I debate over my editor's changes, whether I agree or don't agree. Keep them or leave it in. Or move it to another chapter, possibly. Another rewrite. Another day gone. Squeeze in time for a shower, a meal or two, even a speaking engagement and coffee with friends. At least that gets me out of the house.
The days slide by ... and so does the season. When I'm not in the midst of rewrites, my mind is open to everything around me. I absorb the world like a sponge. But it seems the past two springs I've been holed up in "labor and delivery." Birthing books.
I think I'll get up from my desk today. Tickle some topsoil. Pet a petunia. Hoe a row of marigolds. Who knows, maybe I'll spend the whole damn day outside instead of laboring over Chapter 26.
It's a nice thought, anyway.
Blessings to you and yours.