You know I can't wait for September. To go back into my little writing room, dust down the desk, arrange my papers, sift and sort and start anew. Or start an old because as a writer we cannot ever dismiss what we have written before no matter how trivial it might appear at the time.
I can't wait for September. For order. For the slow unravelling and break-down of the garden. The time to go back, into the soil, into oneself, into another place that I have temporarily abandoned. I long for the scrawl of ink on a new page and the excitement of a thought, a sentence, why even a word to strike me as being something of a new beginning. God knows, I miss it. That exploration of language mixed with the creative. The way an idea comes and then how it grows like something magical without, it seems any prodding.
These days I am a mother, solely. I make Rustica (my own interpretation) Pizza for dinner. Meaure out the ingredients for the dough, find a warm spot in the house for it to rise, chop up peppers and red onions and olives and crumble feta cheese and pull the basil leaves apart until my finger tips are scented with summer and heat. But you cannot write with warm fingertips. You have to be cold and alone and the day has to be wet and windy and there has to be a small dog sitting beside you and listening for the tip and tap of words as they come slowly from your left hand and a hot cup of coffee that grows quickly cold and still you drink it.
Soon the Sumac trees will turn and middle son will come home from the far away place and my young son will begin his final year in high school and my oldest will most possibly find himself in this world and H will publish his latest book and I too might find myself, drifting into the yellowing leaves, counting out the days and the words and always, always trying to find the newness, the pure sensual notion that I might find the right words, the right words to convey how this life can be something more than getting from the morning to the night without finding some beauty, something to celebrate just how this wonderful life can be. Therefore, I breathe and see with renewed clarity the path that stretches out before me like a thousand threads of gold, dappled with shadow, wrought with challenge.