It’s raining hard against the roof.
Out here in the Addington Highlands. Water teeming off the eaves and slicing down into the lake. I have been working all day and talking to the dogs and going for walks in the woods and it has been so quiet, so peaceful, so glorious.
I go back to work at the hospital in two weeks. Slightly nervous about it, slightly meh, what are you going to do. One must make money, mustn’t one. And writing, as we all know, hardly ever pays the bills. “You never know,” a friend said last night, via Skype, “work might not bother you anymore. Everything that was so hard for you before–the longing is gone. It might be totally different now.”The longing is gone. She’s right about this, of course–I can’t even begin to count the ways in which it’s true. The longing for–everything? Everything and nothing all at once.Maybe–probably–it won’t be gone forever. But in the meantime here I am, in the middle of the rain, silent and grateful and faintly surprised.