#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream
Charles River Morning Mist
Fog in November, trees have no heads,
Streams only sound, walls suddenly stop
Half-way up hills, the ghost of a man spreads
Dung on dead fields for next year's crop.
I cannot see my hand before my face,
My body does not seem to be my own,
The world becomes a far-off, foreign place,
People are strangers, houses silent, unknown.
- Leonard Clark, Fog in November
Wide awake at 6:00, rising tired. Physically tired. The press of a busy morning. I want very much to get in a run, but my body insists on a walk. Here is the river, lost in mist. My body resists, resists. In theory, I want to be on this walk. It’s a soggy one. I keep going. I will not shorten it: Crossing the little strip of land through the Rocky Narrows wetlands I meet the overlowing water. It’s backtrack, or go through. Ankle deep, I go through the chilly fresh water, and this isn’t so bad, really. My sneakers needed a rinse, after slonking through the mud. Now, my shoes are fresh and clean and my feet are not terribly cold. We have someone in the house still sick. My Wednesday morning group is coming. I have prepped and set up. I keep wishing I would find my energy! And, I take a short swim despite my lagging. I will draw energy this morning by doing. I want to start my day with these activities: my whole mood will be better. By the time my writers arrive, I feel completely ready. My energy has found me! We welcome a new writer, which is a pleasure. The writing prompt Here’s the thing: November, because we have a holiday called Thanksgivng, keeps me really focused on gratitude. And that’s how I feel this morning: aware of how grateful I am to get to facilitate this special writing workshop. We plan our December open readings for family and friends, come up with a tentative date. I look forward to all the festivity of the season to come. And then, it’s back to the couch, a warm body in my lap, and Sesame Street re-runs for a bit. A little time in the yard too for some fresh air. And I put a bale of hay in the garden wagon and give a hay ride. And pick up all my potted geraniums—still blooming!—and put them in the house where, as every year, they will bloom red buds in the sunny windows to cheer me until spring.