Undated Journal Entry (2007?)

"And here another fleeting moment I long to capture, the coffee, the chocolate, the sunny afternoon, just waiting, for nothing, listening to the dry leaves of the elm, spreading the crinkling of the wind and the haunting chirps of killdeer, robin, sparrow, cardinal.  One daughter asleep on my shoulder, Eleanora on the deck floor, a latticework of shadow across her face as her curls vibrate around her serious expression as she cuts a rubber band, draws imaginary letters on index cards, arranges the papers from her supply box.  I begin a story by Peter Taylor, never read him before, but not three pages in am moved to put it down and write my own something, which used to be so easy, but now that I am out of habit feels awkward, like yoga class last night when everything felt awkward, telling people how to move their bodies in a silent room.  So quickly the vague inspiration fades, and I am here in the wind with a girl on my shoulder and a pen in my hand"

Today, after sending the two oldest on a scavenger hunt by the river, rewarded with lunch at a greasy diner a half mile north of here (as long as they walk) (a thing that only could have happened with the youngest at a friend's* since I don't feel quite comfortable yet sending her on such a long excursion with the others even though she is powerful enough to prevent the entire event if she is not included), finally, I sit on the porch with pen and notebook and write, as I so rarely do, it seems, anymore, so caught up in the blog and improv.  I haven't encountered a book for a while that has driven me to not read it in order to write. And because of that, I've been finishing more books lately and am so glad I renewed I am an Executioner** instead of returning it because for the last two nights, I've discovered strange and wonderful stories there.  Last Thursday morning, I lost my voice in yoga class, so proceeded in silence. It seemed to work out alright.  I never would thought to have done that in 2006. Now, I sit on the porch with a pen in my hand and notebook in my lap, alongside the pollinating bees and birds' songs, not knowing a killdeer from a swan.

*Thanks, Jen.

**Love stories by Rajesh Parameswaran