Sprout

There’s a lot of news going on that I could write about, but I’m not going to today.  The news will wait, and if it doesn’t, another story, another crisis or outrage or injustice will come along.  In a way, it’s the downside of not posting on a daily basis.  My mind tends to go to the news story that begs for commentary while ignoring the other aspects of life that bubble up into the blog when I’m looking, on a daily basis, for something to share with my readers.  It can create a sort of rut. 

It’s easy, particularly during a long, dark winter to get into a rut, especially when there’s minimal leisure time.   Get up. Get ready.  Go to work.  Get the kids. Go home.  Change clothes. Go to the other work.  Go home. Make lunches and try to make other contributions to the running of the household, squeeze in a little leisure activity at the expense of sleep.  Go to bed.  Repeat.   Of course there are variations, especially on weekends, but that’s the routine I’ve operated under throughout the winter.  

Of course, some of that leisure activity is writing.  I’m actually having a lot of fun with the fiction side of that.  I don’t know if you will ever see the particular project I’m working on, but I’m having fun with it and developing some pretty good insights into the writing process.  I’m enjoying it enough that spending too much time away from the story makes me miss the world sprouting in my notebooks and on a couple of computer files. (I haven’t quite developed the insight into how to pull the words I’ve written in at least four volumes together into one place.)

Sprout.  That’s a good word for the moment in which I find myself.  It’s spring.  That long, cold, dark, snowy winter is over, and it seems like life is starting up again.  It’s a time for all things new and fresh and beautiful.  It’s shedding coats and feeling the sun’s warmth.  It’s the explosion of color in gardens and wardrobes alike.  It’s spring.

 The seeds of a year’s possibility were planted in the cold ground of winter, and now, a full season into the year, those seeds have sprouted, green shoots of possibility, of hope, emerging from the frigid ground where they have taken root so that they may soak up the sun and flourish.

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About Andrew

I'm a Christian, American, liberal, geeky, thoughtful, Northwest-transplanted Angeleno husband, father, and pundit who writes about anything he can think of.
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