I know it’s premature to quote this line, but it’s sixty degrees today, sunny, and all things green are springing.  According to the farmer’s almanac the last frost will be in the middle of April, but that’s far enough away, and close enough.  The winter is almost over.  And smale foweles maken melodye.

At some point, my work schedule will change.  This week I work from 3:00pm to 6 or 6:30 pm, then work another job from 7:30pm till 8:00 the next morning.  Well, two days of the week I won’t be working the overnight job, but it’s a tiring enough schedule for the first three days of the week.  I’m starting to feel claustrophobic, like my days are too small and I will have to burst out of them sooner or later.  I don’t like working evenings, and then having other random things to do during the day, like find roommates, clean houses, pay bills, get bumped out of one of my jobs, feel a little panicked.  I can’t figure out whether “something will have to give,” or whether I can just make it if I find the strength somewhere I haven’t looked yet.  Because this kind of season, too full of work, is a creative desert, and I worry that my art will dry up with the rest of my energy and free time.  I’m not even writing the desperate poems I wrote during tough semesters at school.

But this morning I’ve got everything done that I needed to do, I’m watching the lace curtain that Natalie gave me for my birthday filling with wind like a sail on the back porch, filling with sun like a sail on the ocean.  Every peat cell on the table is filled with soil and seedlings, and they are straining toward the sunlight like they’re searching for a sign.  Cilantro, basil, yarrow, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, thyme.  Their desire is so obvious, so unabashed.  I would like to be so clear.  To begin with, I will say that the order and simplicity of Christ pulls me so strongly, today, that I can’t stop thinking about how my inner chaos has a resolution.  Some kind of resolution.  That it will take time, and that this work must be as long and substantial as a novel, or a life-cycle, or a life.  That God leans into me with this long life work resting on the palms of his hands.

At any rate, I don’t know what’s going to happen.  Thinking about school is shocking, thinking about writing is shocking, about travel, about staying home, about being let go, learning to love, promising promises about love, waking up one morning in 2035 and realizing I’m still alive (if I am) is shocking.  Waking up alone in 2035, or waking up next to someone.  Waking up with a reproductive system, or without.  It’s all shocking.  Even the neighbor, who just came out of his blue house and is now whistling, with his hands in his pockets.

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