Snow Day

There's nothing like getting the snow day call the night before.  Then when you wake up at the same time as usual the next morning, you know you can spend the day in your bathrobe.  Which I am doing.

It has been awhile since my last post.  Almost 8 months.  Now I'm listening to Christmas music in the living room with my husband in his chair next to me and the dogs keeping watch over the yard from their perch on the back of the couch.  The Christmas tree is in its corner, the Charlie Brown Christmas scene is on the piano, and my snowman latte mug is sitting on the table next to me, in serious need of a warmup.

I have traveled a long road since that April day.  But I should probably change the name of this blog--again--because the road doesn't seem like a dead end anymore.  It is more of a long road with no end in sight.

I still venture out, but Emily Dickinson's life of isolation more and more seems like a safe, sheltered option.  If I didn't have a job, I might be spending a lot more time in my bathrobe.

It is odd that the times I am away from my computer, my mind is racing with things to write, and when I sit down with some time to put them down at last, everything has melted away.  I take satisfaction from knowing that at least I sat down with the intention of saying a few things.  Even taking the time to make the attempt is a step forward.  Mostly, though, the things I'd like to say shouldn't be posted.  How funny.  My wish is to share my thoughts with others, but I find my thoughts too private to share.  Emily had it right when she put her feelings in mysterious poems that said things without saying them.

Well, this post is going nowhere.  I appreciate your congratulations on my little step of progress, but I will not waste your time further.