Wednesday, November 7, 2018 – The Writing Season

Writing is an unfolding of what’s going on inside me as I talk to myself on a pad of paper or a computer, a version of talk therapy that requires neither appointment nor a fee.
 Parker J. Palmer, On the Brink of Everything


Dark comes early now. The landscapers have taken away a good portion of the fallen leaves and we wait for snow.

I just want to hunker down and write, but life keeps intruding. There’s always the pulling between the inner and the outer worlds. I’ll tap and scribble a few lines this morning, but that’ll be the extent of the work for today.

Broody, I wrestle with some things. I remind myself of what I learned in other dark seasons.

I pull up to the drive-through window and the aroma of the writing elixir wraps around me. It is a fitting season to hide away, drink coffee, and lean in to the intimacy of words.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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