It has been so long since I’ve visited here. The vanilla aroma of the lit candle flickers before me and the music on the stereo beats in time. Coffee steams in the mug. The window is closed for the night was cold.

There have been undulations this week, but there always are. I am remembering Vancouver now because it was quiet and serene, peaceful and low-lit. There were afternoons to stroll through and mountainsides beckoning.

The water lapped as it always does along the shore and away again. The oysters contained salt from the sea. The boats on the horizon waited for me. They beckoned a finger and I walked in their direction. I almost believe there were mermaids under the surface.

And now it is cold in Michigan. I don’t run from the cold, but it is early to be bundled into mittens. The children have already had hot chocolate twice, the canister from Ghirardelli in all its creamy reassurance.

This week has proven that decisions are made in earnest and everything does happen for a reason. It has been a week of long days and warm bodies cuddling between blankets and books. It has been a week of acrimonious exes and that is just par for the eventual course. Anyone who takes on the status of an ex has a cross to burn. Or maybe it’s a mission to uncover.

In the dark of the sunrise, the words chop into ingredients. I am mixing a stew, a batter to pour, the building blocks of something sustaining. Yesterday, I got the email that an editor has moved on, from Des Moines to Milwaukee. His colleague was let go in the economy downturn of this unbelievable year. Who is left? I have not pitched the ball in so long, I have no idea who’s catching.

But change is good. It is the fabric of the day, a cloak under which to readjust the hem and pat hair into place.

And to emerge – oh, to emerge! The sun is about to rise you know. It always does. The day will warm, too. There is no reason for despair. Even the most difficult of interactions ends in time and then it is on to a citrus scent which awakens the soul.

I believe the farmers market has a few good weekends left. Perhaps it is time to see what is ripe, to buy into the harvest. They always have something to try – tomatoes, with juice to dribble down the chin. And there is music, too. Someone to sing at the microphone as the stream gurgles along its path.

Yes, just sitting here and becoming reacquainted, this was important. It is a reminder that I am exactly where I should be and the stories are telling themselves.

Connect with Lynne

Register for The Writers Community