Begin again, and again.

On a quiet chilly Sunday morning I sit at my kitchen table, loving the silence, the solitude, the ritual of making tea. Thoughts and ideas swirl around, I think I’ll member them, those threads of inspiration, note that I should jot them down. I don’t, then promptly forget them. So many stories by others that inspire, so much about writing to read and explore, all perfect distractions from the doing of it it myself. How many more years will it be before that discipline is begun? If for no one else but for myself and personal excavation. Time doesn’t wait, and as one enters a “certain age” that time seems to speed up even more.  Another morning presents, another opportunity to begin. So it is this that comes forth. It’s a start.

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