Ideas and memories float out of somewhere like bubbles that a child tries to catch in the palm of her hand before they escape, before they disappear. Are the original thoughts that flitter in and out as important as what is expressed? Is what I’m obsessed with ultimately going to reach the page until I’ve gotten it out of my system? Isn’t it all important? If I write about the sparrows and the squirrels today, will it feel and look different than tomorrow, or the next day, or a year from now? And how will I know if I don’t write it down—if I don’t look back? Will my mood color the tone, the experience, the way I perceive?
Today, I think of how life is like a cobble stone path with all sots of shapes, sizes, textures—not so much like a ladder—similar qualities, but more amorphous, more grainy—unpredictable. A path with big stones, small stones, broken stones—with many directions and nooks and crannies scattered with weeds and wildflowers.