We are teetering on the edge between seasons, the fine line between End of Summer, Fall, and Winter Is Almost Here. We light the wood stove, sometimes. We prepare firewood and collect kindling from the surrounding forest. We stack wood and briquettes, even though half of the shipment came in yellowing and moldy, and the Beard re-organizes the wood and tool shed. I enjoy the light of the fire as is tumbles and turns, twitching behind the glass of the wood stove door, but I am not ready. The laziness of summer is still upon me. I just want to curl up and write, and read. Not to do chores and stack wood and light wood stoves.
Winter is at preschool for most of the day. Time is no longer such a rare commodity, but it still feels like such. I frantically work on my computer all day, avoiding real-world activities because those, theoretically, are ones I could complete with a toddler at my side. The most unexpected result of having a child has been the sharpening of my focus. The bullshit has fallen to the gutter and been swept away, and for the first time in my life, I am interested in a series of events one might call “a career.” It is strange, but exciting. I should probably spend less time on the computer, but it will take me another few weeks (months? years?) to stop trying to hoard time.
It feels good to be writing, to have so much time to write. Sometimes for clients—today I am writing a short guide to Hamburg for one—sometimes for pet projects, sometimes for myself. I have thrown myself back into the creation of fiction and am enjoying the feeling of being swept away into a world of my own creation, bleak as those worlds tend to be. When Winter gets home, I feel like it is the perfect time for a break; it is not an interruption.
Winter is becoming more interesting as she learns to talk, as she becomes more and more independent. On the train she sits on a chair by my side and looks out the window. Outside she bakes sand cakes that we pretend to eat, piles screws on the table as we build, takes her doll for a walk down the path that leads to our neighbors while we drink coffee on the porch. I love listening to her talk, to her pretend to read books out loud (a few memorized words between a language she has invented), to speak German to her dolls and English to me. We watch old movies and eat popcorn. “I want you to cuddle me,” she tells me. I should record more of what she says. It is all wonderful, and so much of it is forgotten between the moment when she speaks and the moment when I sit down to write.
How are you?