There’s a wall of mind gunk I have to wade through before I find a quiet spot to write. It’s the thought banter of the day—guys bullshitting over beers after work, idle chatter at a hair salon. It’s taxes, Katy Perry on the moon, and other crap I don’t care about, poking their heads into my brain like telemarketers wasting my time.
What I’m after is release. That unburdened place. The space where I dream.
Like earlier, when I saw the long tail of a mockingbird perched on our weather station in the field—I imagined something more intentional. A shepherd’s hook with different feeders strung to it. A little fountain or bird bath nearby. A proper respite for my fluttery friends, whose numbers keep growing on our property.
Inspiration pinging me feels like something that, if I don’t spring toward it, will just turn around and leave. And I’ll be left sitting on the couch wondering what it wanted.
The problem with certain inspirations is they have their own timing. You can’t rush them. You can’t force them. Sometimes you don’t have the funds. Sometimes you don’t have the help. So you shelve them—tuck them away and wait for their day in the sun.
Anyway, I’m out of things to say.
If I leave now, I can catch an episode of Love on the Spectrum and see if Connor goes on a second date with Genevieve—or whatever her name is.
Take care. Love, Jaclynn
It’s Georgie.
Going On 40 