Last night, I woke up at 4. I woke up at 5. I woke up at 6:08. Each time, the sound of ice beating against the windows of my bedroom. I couldn't sleep. I wasn't hungry, and I wasn't (that) cold, and if there had been nightmares I couldn't recall them. What was it?
Why was the phrase "small kingdom" bouncing about in my head?
Why was I picturing the many types and colors of basil, and my mother's hands as she cut the rosemary bush down to twigs?
Why was I logging on Wikipedia to read about seasnails and chambered shells, when the sun hadn't even come up yet?
And then I realized...I was ready to write. And damn, it's been so long I'd almost forgotten what it felt like, the restlessness of it. The willing absorption of it.
So here's to falling in love again--even if it's just an affair with your own work, on a very slushy morning in a very dreary city.