Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey
The urge is upon me.
I can always tell when it’s time for me to sit down and write. I feel anxious, unsettled; there’s something inside that needs to come out. Usually, I can sit down in front of the computer, or pick up my notepad, or in extreme cases, pull the moleskin out of the back pocket and start putting things down. After a while, some sort of cogent theme will emerge. But not today.
It doesn’t help that I’ve got a lot of thought fishes swimming around in the ol’ brain pond these days. (How’s that for a flashy slice of mixed metaphor?) It’s becoming hard to sort out what my analytic priorities should be, and how long I should be spending on each one.
I’m still trying to work through the passing of our 5-month-old granddaughter in early April.
Why can’t I bring myself to use the word “death?” Is it because of my religious beliefs and the promise of an afterlife? Is it a result of my own near-death experience? Or am I deliberately trying to soft-pedal the harsh reality?
I can’t answer these questions today. Tomorrow’s not looking good, either.