I wonder if being doped up on cold medicine can make your writing better? I'm thinking not, though it hasn't stopped me from continuing my poem a day venture. I've found myself vacillating between hating myself as a writer and loving what is happening with my writing; I suppose this is a natural push-pull when you force yourself to write. Most of my irritation with what I was producing has come with deadlines: I love to learn for learning's sake, but given a structure, and I rebel. Perhaps I can understand my students' desire to pull back a little more too.
It's week four of the school year, and I'm trying to keep balance: a teacher, a person who is applying to graduate school, a person who is finishing a Master's in Education, a person who is learning how to be a wife, a partner, a person who gets enough sleep every night.
It's quiet and peaceful in the fall. There is still a little energy left from the summer, and autum storms are rolling in. Tonight, the sun disappeared early, giving way to lightning and subtle thunder. The dogs were anxious to return inside, sopping wet, and I took an afternoon nap, hoping to sleep off some of this sick.
It's only Monday; this week will drag its feet. But we will all manage to find ourselves at the other end of it, small steps in learning following.