Is It Summer?Posted: February 1, 2009
I feel like it is the middle of summer. You know, after the fields are plowed, the seeds are put in, the crops come up in neat green rows of cultivated dirt and work to produce the fruit of their purpose.
Then hot sun beats down and showers fall and all the care that was exercised to give the plant health goes to waste and the weeds come. They fill in all the empty spaces between the plants and grow higher and keep crowding until they push the plant down, block its nourishment, stunt it, kill it.
This is a picture of my life. Is it summer?
I look outside my window and I see no green. The calendar now says February. I know winter lingers.
The week pressed down. The “weeds” came and crowded out the joys. They got so thick that one night — as a hard icy rain fell — I put on my running shoes at 10:30 p.m., left the warmth, and ran as big drops pelted me … had to run it off … get it out … summer … winter … didn’t matter. Snow fell the next morning and blocked my vision as I drove across Manley Lane and Murray Lane to work.
Now it’s the weeds still demanding time and attention. And it’s the anthology that I want to work on. We’ve got a title! We’ve got a cover idea! The stories are in process of being approved by the writers, following edits. It’s all coming together … and close!
But today, I’ve got to attend to weeds. I’ve got to establish priorities. I’ve got to get some order back in the fields of this cold and harsh world.