So it's the third of the month and I'm supposed to be in March. Writing about the other end of transformation, the rebirth of the sun and of lightness and adventure. The rooting, blooming, beautifying.
Yet the world is still a snowglobe swathed in the artificial warmth of Christmas lights, spring just a longing. I'm stuck in the idea of new years resolutions, as I've now crossed an invisible line into a new era. There should be newness--a cleanse, a list of goals, a fat smack of inspiration.
I can't tap into this flow yet. I suppose I feel stuck, financially. Which leads to being stuck in this house and this town. Which leads to writer's block. I'm as frozen as the creek.

Tomorrow, I love ya!