As I drove into work this morning, the roads and not the grass were covered in a light layer of snow. Strange. I scanned the ground searching for even the slightest trace of snow, and yet there was none. I don't think I've ever seen snow on the road and not the fields.
I have such a pretty drive to work. A great deal of my drive is through a park. Wide open fields mixed with densely crowded woods. I peered deep into those woods this morning, feeling an intense desire to visit them once again. It's been too long since I wandered around in the trees and wrapped myself up in the land. I miss it. However, winter is not for wandering - at least not in the frigid temps we've been having lately and certainly not with a six year old in tow.
But I need to find some way to clear out the clutter in my head, to quiet the noise, and to release all the words swirling around there. I need time and space to write and maybe even a stinging shot of inspiration.
Why must all of the richest of my ideas come while I'm driving or in the shower and then seep away into oblivion before my fingers touch a keyboard or my pen to paper? The busyness of life and the lure of entertainment has stifled the gift I know God put inside of me. As I drove here this morning, I prayed that He would keep it from atrophying or evaporating since I've neglected to use it for so long.
Write. Write every day. I know this is a must, and yet I lie in bed every night drained of energy and wishing that I had written just one line. I'm sitting here with twelve students as they serve their time in Saturday school copying pages out of the dictionary - certainly not fun for them and not something I looked forward to overseeing either, but it has allowed me this small space in which to gather some of my thoughts. I'm determined to improve, to write more, and hopefully, to write a bit every day. Maybe, just maybe, this is a start.