Lately I’ve felt like my life mirrors a drought. Torrential rain has fallen early and with lasting consequence. A cloud burst here and there renews the pattern. Of late, no cloud bursts, no torrential rains, but plenty of mist. Fog really. No clear sunrises, no opaque sunsets. Sameness of a spritz of mist and relentless fog. Adrift.
Adrift is unsettling. Fog is unsettling. Drought is unsettling. In the combination of the three, deep change is welling. I feel it, but I don’t yet know it. My mouth is dry, I do not utter a word. My mind in twisted, random thoughts force writing. Writing is hope for clarity. Writing is faith in the future. Writing is a ship cutting through the fog of the endless waveless sea, bringing me closer to sunrises and sunsets. I wonder. I think. I ponder. Writing, in any form is necessary for my life.After the rain, after the mist, after the torrential downpour, after the drought, the water drops cling to the leaves. The sepal opens, the bud revealed, with water droplets clinging. Water, in any form, is necessary for life.