From my bedroom window I can hear the spring filling our reservoir, a content gurgle of water. The katydids chant, and occasionally the screech owl’s call wavers and lilts through the darkness. Not a screech, not even close, but a haunting night flute that collects my thoughts in its web of sound and takes me elsewhere.
It’s a fine summer night. Tomorrow will be hot and luscious and we will eat peaches off our trees and swim again in the river. Maybe it will rain again on my laundry, the clouds attempting to temper my happiness.
Happiness. Such a fickle thing, even when one has every reason in the world to indulge in it! But it seems that I’ve found my way back to it, with a little dedication to my creative practice. Just the tiniest bit! What would happen if I never wavered in my practice?
I would like to find out.