A fit of rain is brewing over the Pacific and will surely interrupt this pattern of warmth and clarity we have experienced lately. I stepped out this morning under gray sky to move some outdoor furniture around, in anticipation of the rain and of the carpenters coming here this morning to continue work on remodeling the cottage beside my house. I must learn all over again how to be content indoors when the outdoors is not conducive to reading and absorbing a quantity of Vitamin D. I should turn to my old friend, this journal, to work through some of the frustration I feel when the season seemingly turns itself backwards.

The words I carry around inside of me are like the deadness of winter until I find a time and place to let them march forth. It seems that in February the journey of living felt so lifeless. The forces within that want to make me talk were so quiet. Maybe I had a need to take leave from my regular, predictable world. I passed through many hours of strumming the ukulele, listening to see if I had any rhythm or beat in me at all, and found that I do not, and that if I would like to possess some I must kindle it on my own, rather than expect that it somehow exists naturally within. I can only imagine that if I had to pluck four strings and finger the frets on a board in order to keep a journal, I would find far less to say. My vocabulary would be monosyllabic and embarrassingly simple for even the youngest reader.

I might stand a chance of mastering a simple song or two on the ukulele if I listen long enough to myself playing and keep plucking the strings with enough rhythm to sustain a fascination. And so it is with the journal. If I can perceive enough color and variety in living that begs me to speak, then words may continue to flow. I fall into spells of hyper activity, probably fueled by the warmer and sunnier days, but just as often I am content to do very little or maybe even nothing, a behavior I adopted during my corporate years in a zoo cage. The days when I am filled with nothing in particular to do may actually be my most productive days. My mind becomes more thoroughly rested and the inquisitive portion within becomes ignited with desire to comprehend and maybe even write.

This morning the sky is gray enough that it appears like yesterday’s late afternoon. The rhythm of changing light has no beat for me to discern. Tomorrow I expect high winds to sway the redwood tree tops and slam intense sheets of water against the roof. I should have my fingers and my thoughts ready at the keyboard in case some of that natural energy speaks to me.

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