A Writer's Impatience

Sunlight, finally, after so long. For many years, February has been the beginning to the end of winter. The first snowmelt, the first all day, truly sunshine day, the sounds of peacocks calling, ‘Help!’ behind our house.

Yesterday, we drove to the mountains where the sunlight was magnified by fresh snow, where snow laced dark, mysterious pines, piled high on abandoned picnic benches and slid from steep-pitched roofs. Where the ski resort was over-packed, the ski runs scattered with ant-size skiers from our perspective and every dog was laughing.

The sun beat against the car window heated us until we were too warm and hungry. All there was to do, then, was stop at a little convenience store for chicken strips and potato logs and douse them with ranch dressing, while we ate in the car like hooky playing teens. Very reminiscent of my teen years, going off the grid, so to speak, on that first good day in February.

Still, spring is coming. I feel it in the back of my neck where something—some tiny muscle finally unwinds, relaxes, whispers—‘you made it through another winter and this time…with flying colors. You’re learning; you are finally learning how to love winter, too.’ And so I am.

Oh, no doubt, I feel rusty. I think that’s normal for anyone. Maybe, hints of hibernation tendencies. I’m growing impatient for bright colors, fresh vegetables and activities without heavy coats and gloves and boots.

Better yet, it feels as though the winter mulch has been brushed away from my writer’s mind. I’m wanting more than editing, blogging. Maybe, it’s because I’ve finished my goal, but I’m starting to want to look for something new and fresh. I’m getting the urge for poetry and researching and planning a new novel and…I’ve waited so long to feel this—renewal.
Ah, ha…spring has been whispering in my muse’s ear.