It was one of those weeks where I felt I was searching - for the right passage to leap off a page, for the right artwork to surprise me with joy. It didn't come and I was swirling. Every time I sat down to share something here, it didn't feel quite right. Rather than force it, I closed my computer, lay on my bed and closed my eyes.
Still, there were simple pleasures this week: A shelf emptied and cleaned with a wet cloth. The pictures I hung last weekend happily registered every time I walked into my bedroom. Some wonderful mail and e-mail and the slow wilt of beautiful dahlias, their small banal, unblogworthy beauty.
I love the transitional seasons, but they also bring out my own restlessness. There are things I want to change and I don't quite understand what's holding me back. There are other things I think I want to change, but I'm not fully sure of yet. As the angle of light grows longer and the days shorter, that quicksand feeling takes over; the sense that all around there's change but my sameness is startling.
And so, I suppose, that's why I was searching for something to leap off a page. And, I suppose, that's why it didn't. Because those moments can rarely be summoned by sheer will, with projected needs and missives.
And some weeks are just like that. The days pass, nothing special happens, no new desires surface, no new ideas seize. There's just the waking up and thinking and feeling and searching. Until somebody, something we're not even fathoming, cuts through and catches us.