Waiting for the desire to write is not always the best path to take.

I sit here in my quiet room, sunlight dancing across the ceiling, wind whipping the trees outside. It is quiet, but for the winter onslaught of cold air bumping against the windows, mixed with the distant hum of a lawn mower. I am unused to this. This...this...ALMOST SILENCE. E has taken the kids out to ride their new bikes. Santa was good this year. Big kid bikes with training wheels and cool helmets. BOY & GIRL have taken to biking as if it is the ONLY choice. And for them, it is.

I am under the heating blanket, with heavy socks and a fleece jacket topping my sweater. I feel that I have been cold for days...my body still unbalanced from the flu, hell let's just call it the plague that has passed through our house. But, I can breathe again, and the world is once more full of color. There was a period of time where I thought I wasn't going to come back, that there wasn't a place to return to - that it was beyond my grasp. But, that was the depression talking - that black, messy muck that descends and takes advantage of a mind thrown a bit askew from sickness.

There is so much ahead to write about, yet it will take a bit to get there. My fingers are slow to tap across the keys and the thoughts seem just out of reach. I find that writing has many bumps in the road. A bit like stumbling around in the dark. And sometimes, much as I don't feel like going through the motions, it is best that I do. Waiting for the desire to write is not always the best path to take. Like anything, you simply have to do it. No matter the plodding and hacking through the words - stuck like glue to the roof of my mouth. A bitter aftertaste.

It was a lovely Christmas, yet this year I am ready to move on. To shake the trees and see what fruits will bear. First though, I will take one more nap...

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