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A couple of weeks away from my home to watch over the home of friends who live in the desert. The Coachella Valley this time of year experiences the weather the rest of the country will enjoy in June or July. This area of pure white sand, and varieties of cactus and palms is blocked from most Pacific influence by a range of mountains shooting up over 10,000 feet from the desert floor. The home we watch has an infinity pool that mirrors a reflection of the San Jacinto Mountains, a great place to lie in the warm sun for a couple of hours each day, as a sort of prelude to a Santa Cruz summer.
When I returned home the other day I had to put on long pants, sweatshirt, and jacket. A cold front has moved in and dropped snow on the higher peaks around here. California has been in a deep drought for two years and now we see snow and a cold front in the early spring. What a relief from the recklessness of dry and empty skies.
My routines of reading and writing have really been disturbed. I took a break from journal keeping for a couple of weeks. It is so hard to start up once again. All sorts of incongruent ideas and words pop into my head, competing for my attention. I will often remove myself from the keyboard when I find that I really have nothing to say, because I know that my fingers will pound out even more of nothing, only exaggerating what is already nonexistent, if that can be possible.
I have taken a few notes on a longer writing project, so not all of my writing energy has been dispersed, but splintered. Spring, especially in the beginning of the season, is such a disruptive event for me. I find myself thinking such sporadic thoughts when I go out and see what the great outdoors is doing all around me.
Even the ground near my back door is bursting forth with wild green plants that I will not see the rest of the year. They have this short appearance that is fueled by warmth and moisture. The warmth turns up a few degrees to truly being heat and only the natural redwood forest and what I nurture with the garden hose maintains any further liveliness. Now is a good time to go look carefully at what has come to the surface on its own accord.
When I returned home the other day I had to put on long pants, sweatshirt, and jacket. A cold front has moved in and dropped snow on the higher peaks around here. California has been in a deep drought for two years and now we see snow and a cold front in the early spring. What a relief from the recklessness of dry and empty skies.
My routines of reading and writing have really been disturbed. I took a break from journal keeping for a couple of weeks. It is so hard to start up once again. All sorts of incongruent ideas and words pop into my head, competing for my attention. I will often remove myself from the keyboard when I find that I really have nothing to say, because I know that my fingers will pound out even more of nothing, only exaggerating what is already nonexistent, if that can be possible.
I have taken a few notes on a longer writing project, so not all of my writing energy has been dispersed, but splintered. Spring, especially in the beginning of the season, is such a disruptive event for me. I find myself thinking such sporadic thoughts when I go out and see what the great outdoors is doing all around me.
Even the ground near my back door is bursting forth with wild green plants that I will not see the rest of the year. They have this short appearance that is fueled by warmth and moisture. The warmth turns up a few degrees to truly being heat and only the natural redwood forest and what I nurture with the garden hose maintains any further liveliness. Now is a good time to go look carefully at what has come to the surface on its own accord.
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