It's November. This drab time of year when all I want it to do is snow. The happy fall colours are starting to disappear, it's wet, it's cold, it's blah.
My brain seems to have decided to start a winter hibernation a wee bit earlier than planned. I can't think straight, I can't talk without fumbling into Franglais, I can't motivate myself to scrub out that dish I cooked dinner in two nights ago.
I want to sit and read but I have nothing to read. I want to go run but my back hurts and I hate having to go past the guys working on a building project down the street. Having to run with a "uniboob" is one thing, having people look at it bounce on by is another.
I want to clean out all the bedrooms and transform them into something you might see in the Ikea catalog. But the problem is, what do I do with all of our shit that's in there already? Minimalist is not our thing. Clutter, stacking, throwing on floor...that's our thing. And we are really, really good at that.
I need inspiration to write. My muse seems to have gone on vacation and left me here to wonder and pine for it's return. Just how does one make my mundane sound exciting, my mundane, important and consequential? Does it really matter what I say? I'm someone who's life has been blessed, someone who's life has flowed easily from one place to another. What do I know about anything? What have I to share?
There's snow on the mountains and my idle brain is full of winter. The smell of wet wool, burning wood, snowmobile engines, roast goose, steaming huskies curled into themselves. I crave clean snow, blinding me in the sun.
I'm impatient and tired, useless, and waiting.
I'm at a loss. For words and for November.