Oh my gosh, there is so much I want to blab about, just spew words all over the internet, adding to the clouds of word pollution out there, but I CAN'T.
Can't talk. Typing.
Can't type. Cleaning. (wha? Oh yes. Yes I have been cleaning. Somebody please check my forehead.)
Can't read. Pulling weeds.
Can't pull weeds. Reading.
Things are developing in my head and on the page. I almost think I can see the path ahead of me and all I have to do is take the steps. Small steps, always small, and before I know it I can't see the start line anymore. I am tired. I feel weak. But squinting off into the white fog of the road ahead, I am so sure that it's the right path.
Cryptic? Shhhh. Not yet. Wait. Please be patient with me. It's coming.
It rained on and off all day and I wore barn boots to pull weeds in the front lawn. The world felt right. In the push and pull of everything around me, it's good to wear barn boots and leather work gloves and yank the offending interlopers out of the ground. Head's in the clouds... feet on the ground.