Stuck

I would like the words to flow from the pen.   I can see the pen floating across the paper, making wonderful, beautiful, marks, flowing letters, scrolling across the page effortlessly, forming words and symbols, music and art.

 

The reality is that my pen – when I can find the one I really love today – scratches on the paper.  My writing isn’t neat, my letters aren’t perfectly formed, my words go in every direction.   

The dream does not match the reality.

I so wish it did.  I wish that I could spend hours,  sitting on a cushion under the catalpa tree, notebook and pen in hand, just writing away, making beautiful marks on blank paper.   

There are bugs under that tree, bugs that would send me screaming into the field.  There are roots that stick out and would make sitting there very uncomfortable. 

But it’s a lovely picture, isn’t it?  It’s right up there with the picture of me in my flowing white dress, curled up on a cushion in a pavilion in the field.   I weigh about 120 lbs in that picture, by the way, and my hair is long and curly.   (A girl may as well dream big!)

And there is always tea.  

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