They say, “To be happy, do what you love.”
If you are lucky, what you love to do is also how you pay the rent and afford your meals. In Stephen King’s “On Writing” he describes his daily mornings spent in his writing room crafting the stories that sent him off the charts of publication fame. Interspersed with writing is reading, the fuel of any writer’s craft. In the afternoons, Stephen is off for a four-mile walk (which almost ended his life in 1999 when he was hit by a distracted driver).
I spend what seems like five minutes writing in my notebook, answering email, or reading a novel, then look up, and realize: Half the day is gone. Gone! Vanished! And I haven’t moved my butt out of the chair. I get up, and oi! Stiff back, neck, hips. And I hardly scratched the surface of all the delicious things I planned to do with reading, writing, studying, connecting.
In the meantime, my body is asking: “So, where did you go? Forgot about me, did ya? What happened to those walks around the lake? Look at all those twigs and sticks all over the lawn! Did you sprinkle the pelletized lime yet? No? Not even purchased it from the nursery? What about the trumpet vine that took over the garden last year and was finally voted in for mayor? You said you were going to move it “in spring.”
It would be so easy to stuff that voice away and hunker down on the sofa in my den. I do it almost every weekend. You would be surprised how much easier it gets the more you do it.
On the other hand, the sky today is that wild blue yonder of early spring. The wind is whipping energy off the frozen earth to reveal the tender shoots of snowbells, little shooting stars of hope: Spring’s calling card. The moody greys of winter are surrendering. And while driving home from the supermarket, I spotted a few hundred migrating mergansers resting on the lake. The crows are flinging themselves all over the place with twigs in their bills, then sneaking in to the big spruce across the street to build their nest. The Titmice are chasing each other with their little black, beady bedroom eyes.
Time to get out there. See ya later, alligator.