Days drip slowly off the page. I wander back and forth, surrounded by the same set of imaginary walls, content, but uninspired, a quiescent and melancholy mood. Many days have passed since the trip to the North Fork of the Blackwater, and as typical of the winter months, I languish in the cold and sunless expanse of weather. Mired in moments of pause and reflection, it is difficult to avoid the sense of drifting perilously close to the nadir of my own inner abyss. My self imposed analytical fixations twist within my daily thoughts, yet eventually, after several cold and dark weeks, the air begins to smell a bit different, the wind blows with less bite and a bit more softness, and I finally feel the first breath of spring.
So, it is in recent days that I feel reinspired. I wander outward in all directions, searching for the first signs of what comes next. Longer days and the laughter of birds stoke my sense of adventure. I long to leave the confines of my classroom and venture out into the wilderness once again. It is all I can do to feel like myself, to reconnect with things honest and real.
I am unsure of what lies on the horizon, but I can feel the coming of spring, like a rush of blood to the head. I look forward.
So, it is in recent days that I feel reinspired. I wander outward in all directions, searching for the first signs of what comes next. Longer days and the laughter of birds stoke my sense of adventure. I long to leave the confines of my classroom and venture out into the wilderness once again. It is all I can do to feel like myself, to reconnect with things honest and real.
I am unsure of what lies on the horizon, but I can feel the coming of spring, like a rush of blood to the head. I look forward.
