Perhaps it was the way I sat there – hands alert over laptop keys as birds welcomed in the first morning light – that finally drove inspiration away.
I sang the Magnificat over the garden. It died anyway. He has not forgotten.
I should be writing. The literary trifecta are in reach: laptop, coffee, Annie Dillard books. But even so, I can’t stop watching the breeze play with the steam off my coffee. It’s mesmerizing, like a hands-on lava lamp. Just as the sunlight catches the swirls, they vanish. Diffused. It’s normal and romantic, ethereal and earthy. … Read More