We’ve had a couple of days of temperate weather – just enough to whisper the coming of spring. The eighteen inch white cap of snow on the back shed roof has shrunk to six inches, fences are growing taller, and the tops of stone walls are poking through the white landscape here and there. I think this is going to be an especially enjoyable rebirth this year.
My own strength seems to be returning a bit. I can walk up a flight of stairs again without resting half way up and my appetites have returned. I rolled out of bed yesterday morning at 4:00am with a clever little short short story asking to be typed. I haven’t written any new fiction in six months. Something must be mending.
I imagine the creature in my head that weaves these tales getting increasingly agitated as the hours pass and it can’t break through to my conscious mind. Once the story makes its way out of my fingers and into my keyboard it rests, lost in afterglow.
The closest I’ve seen the feeling in real life is Sheltie Chase’s face as he snuggles on Delphine’s chest on a cold winter evening in front of a roaring fire. The reward for every yearning, every struggle lies right there in the gleam of his eye. Pork chops, herding hens, and an evening on Delphine’s lap – it just doesn’t get any better than that.
Are dogs supposed to smile that way? Does anything in my universe ever feel that profoundly good? Maybe not. But just watching it warms my soul.