I’m looking around my front room, seeking something to write about. I’ve sort of committed myself to trying to write — here, in my public blog, not just in a diary — as often as I can. And the morning, while I’m getting my brain in gear, seems to be the time for it.

We didn’t really decorate for Christmas, which is a bad confluence of a bunch of things, since usually I love Christmas decor. But C bought a pot of paperwhite narcissus, and I love their look and scent. Then I bought a small centerpiece of greenery on Christmas Eve, at the last day of the Farmer’s Market until April. And that too has felt right. So new traditions, perhaps? As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been feeling tired and stuck, and I’m looking eagerly to even symbols of new growth. That next year, perhaps, will be a bit better than this year. But hope is insufficient: instead, small plans & actions.

And knowing boundaries.

The team had a planning retreat yesterday, just the three of us, going through all of our projects and figuring out what we want to do next year, or at least in the first half of next year. At least a couple of times, I looked at something thinking that I want to do it right away…and then remembering to look at the rest of the whiteboards, and what else was on them. And I could actually say: “no, that will have to wait.” It can wait, because I know what is important. It’s very clarifying.

So it is, to some extent, making time for this. It’s not yet anything major or meaningful: it’s not a novel; it’s not my essay about morning glories/bindweed. But it is getting back into the habit of getting words out. Because I know in my heart that putting words together, expressing things in writing, is one of the things that brings me joy.

I have a bunch of other things I need to get done on this Saturday morning: planning for my D&D game; cleaning; laundry; making apple butter before the apples go bad; buying a train ticket to Portland. But it seemed important to do this for just a little bit before all that.