The winter months have traditionally been my time to write. I hunker down, throw on a cape, steep tea, and spend hours at my computer. The next day I re-write everything from the day before, and then begin anew. The process goes on for months and I love it. Inevitably, the first signs of spring provoke anxiety. Lengthening days mean the garden will soon be in bud, and the competition for writing time will begin. Weeds will sprout. I will fret. And then I will succumb. Weeding, seeding, tilling, dead-heading, and mowing will prevail through the summer months until October when I put the gardens to bed for another year.
This spring however is different. A concussion in early December de-railed any plans to complete my current manuscript. In fact, I have spent this winter not writing and not reading. The experience has been akin to a forced withdrawal which may explain why this spring, instead of trepidation I’m sensing anticipation. The garden, I am thinking, will become an extension of my physio-occupational therapy…snow-shoeing, cross-country skiing, walking, yoga, mending, and cooking. The time I spend getting my fingernails and knees dirty will be additional time for my brain to heal. At some point during my excavations I hope my characters will “join” me. In previous years they have been at the edge of my consciousness …always. Listening. Observing. Developing. However for the past few months they have been noticeably truant. I suspect their absence has been my brain’s way of saying “Give it a rest, why don’t ya?” And so I will continue to do just that, while I listen, observe, heal….and wait.