I am sitting here at the computer as snow falls onto the balcony, covering the half-dead geraniums with a fluffy, white fur. Just yesterday, the geraniums still boasted deep red petals and sturdy green stems. It only takes a harsh bit of real life to make them wither into weak shadows of themselves.
I know how they feel.
After an hour and twenty minutes of coaxing, cajoling, screaming, seething and soothing, I finally got my youngest to fall asleep. I pinched a nerve in my neck taking the garbage out — a nice shot of pain zaps me anytime I move. My husband won’t quit smoking — close call with death or not, the nicotine wins. I’ve decided I hate everything I’ve written on my new novel from page 42 forward. The cat puked on the living room rug. And to top it all off, I’m out of popcorn. Right now I’m feeling about as snappy and tough as those geraniums on my balcony; right now I’m ready to wilt.
But here I am, sharing this whiny post, and you know what? I may be wiped out. I may be cranky. Yet I’m already feeling better. I’ve said nothing worthwhile. No insight has been made, no poetry has been penned. But my fingers are flipping along on the keyboard and my mind no longer feels like it’s melting.
Because I’m writing. It makes no difference what. Just that I’m doing it. I’m doing it to keep myself alive. I’m doing it to keep myself human.
And I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow in that mass of frozen geraniums on the balcony there isn’t one who’s somehow kept its color. If there isn’t one who’s managed to survive by doing whatever geraniums do to keep themselves alive.
If so, I’ll take it inside. I’ll put it here, by the window, and watch it bloom.
While I write.