One morning, I’m restless.
I go upstairs and stand at the picture window in the living room looking at the greening hills on the other side of the valley. I turn around and go back downstairs to my office. I stand in the middle of the room looking at the mess on both of my desks.
I consider tossing some papers in my bag and going out somewhere to write. But where? But why?
I sit down in the chair at my writing desk, put my head in my hands, and say a prayer. Then I reach for my Moleskin notebook, and one of the many pens on my desk, and start scribbling, trying to make sense of it all.
The answer comes as I write. The ache in my arm from writing “hard and clear about what hurts” (thanks for that thought, Mr. Hemingway) doesn’t change anything, but with it comes a settling.
I get some things done that I hadn’t intended to get done, still prickly and hungry to get back to that better thing, but the day ends with a feeling of accomplishment, nonetheless.