Almost the end of January in New England, and it's pouring today. To the right and left of my house, sudden ponds form from the combined snowmelt and ceaseless heavy rain. Strong winds wrestle the pines and hemlocks visible from my window. The weather on the days I gave birth to each of my three children is vivid: the glory of peak foliage celebrating my first son's arrival; verdant spring when my daughter emerged, and a frozen, brilliantly white winter the morning my third came—his arrival an unforgettable unity of tumultuous and miraculous. Then again, what birth is not to some degree a blend of tumult and miracle?
Today, in a climate of unseasonable warmth and rain rains, this blog is coming into the light—a dormant seed sprouting from a subterranean, fertile darkness. The desire to share the joys of writing, particularly journaling, has finally made its way to the surface.
In this ever-expanding container, a virtual basket, I shall gather and share the harvest of a half century love-affair with writing. This ever-new, intimate relationship just gets more satisfying and delicious as time comes on. I welcome you to the feast.
Pull up a chair and a journal, laptop, or whatever you writing implement of choice, and join me in harvesting the feast of your life.
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