It was a pretty day today, though none of us really wanted to see more snow. It fell steadily through the night to daybreak–fine, barely visible crystals that cover the landscape with a white blanket when you’re not looking. A typical end-of-February snow. It’s rather hypnotic. The trees surrounding the property have become a greyscape again, their usual winter green once more a muted non-color, desaturated by the thin layer of snow.
Not far from my window is an ornamental crabapple tree. It’s branches are barren now, of course, except for a tiny bird’s nest that still clings to fragile fork in a branch. How tenacious its hold, this lump of mud and sticks! How stubbornly it has clung to this meager branch through rain, nor’easters and raging blizzards.
It’s a good analogy for writing. A bit like life, in fact. You start with lumps of mud, and a few sticks for interest, and mold them all together into something you can “live in”. You rearrange, tidy and repair. And when self doubt and the chronically moronic assault your progress like a northeast wind, you cling to your tenuous branch and hang on for dear life, refusing to be shaken from the tree.
Eventually, the wind subsides and you rearrange, tidy and repair once more and then get on with it. Perhaps, as a reminder, I’ll rescue that vacated nest and keep it on my book shelves.
[photo (c) grendelkhan – Flickr]