Small potatoes

I’m having a horrible, horrible, horrible, writing morning. It makes me realize how much a good writing morning gives me. I sit here longer than I should hoping for a little of that “good writing” spark of joy that’ll carry me through my day. When I can do a bit of “good writing,” writing that feels from that “zone” you get in when all else leaves your mind, then I feel as if, no matter what happened yesterday, or might happen today, it hasn’t completely taken me away from myself. I’m still in touch with that place that’s not touched by the craziness of the times, or the particulars like getting your carpet cleaned three days before the grandkid, for the first time ever, decides to shake his sippy cup full of purple juice while he runs through the living room.

I say to Donny, “What are the chances of that?” And he says, “It always happens.”

He’s right. It does.

So you need that place. I need the place where it doesn’t matter.

I need the place where it doesn’t matter that I got my book launch scheduled, (January 7 in case you’re interested.) I need that place where it’s all small potatoes.

I get more anxious about finding that place when I’m working, which I am today. I got a great new client. He lives out in the country. The first day I drove out to meet him (early so that I’d be sure to find the place), it was raining (later turned to snow). I stopped in the middle of the dirt road with plowed fields on both sides. First I turned off the wipers. Then the heater. Then the car. Then I rolled the window down. Listened to the silence. I wrote a poem right there in the car. That’s how moved I was. That’s how empty the road was.

So I know I don’t have to sit here and wait for the zone, but sometimes I do. Sometimes it comes. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes it comes when you’re ready to get up, or you just got up. I just came back after throwing some towels in the dryer. When I look out the window now, there’s that dryer steam billowing into the early morning light. It turns pink and waves around like clouds on the move. It floats in front of the can of apple tree spray that’s hanging from the clothesline, and wafts over the grill, and up into the lilac bushes. It changes color like prisms of light. The sun creeps higher.