It feels like the incubation period is complete. I have cracked my shell and am now emerging as new life. This is usually the kind of thing that happens at the end of spring, when the summer sun is warming the ground and days are stretching into infinity. The time when the air chills and the nights are long, is the time I tend to retreat inward. My rhythms have been wacky this year. Perhaps it's all the moving, shifting, bending and breaking. I've started many seeds, and harvested all the fruit. It's a time for cover crops, and I'm back to preservation. Instead of spending another night in tears, I poured my heart into jars of picked okra. Three pounds of the summer fruit produced five quart sized jars. I'm looking forward to my next bloody mary :)
“When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.”- Margaret Atwood
And that is why we write.
