Having four days to write is fraught with joys and promise and misery.

Looking back on those four days, all I am is tired. Looking forward, all I was was excited.

Waking as the brain demands, knowing the demands of the day. Learning to breathe differently, to breathe your own air. Knowing that an ease is built into the day; that there is time to figure things out. Understanding that there is nothing to focus on but the task ahead. That is the substance of the day.

This is the place of built-in forgiveness for the fullness of the idea that may be slow to arrive. Time to figure it out. A place to find the self. These are the mornings of choices: Does one take the contemplative walk in which ideas may come, or the run that permits nothing but a concentration on breathing?

I finished a chapter, the end of a combination of two, as rich and full and complete as I might have hoped. I got real headway into the chapter after. And then.

Unexpectedly, at the end of it, in an escape mode in which I watched the White River drown its banks and creep toward the house, an imposition of worry that cut into the smooth progress. The blank, black place of “what the hell do you think you’re on about?”  The awareness that the story that had picked me up on its shoulders and had run away with me might well have been running in the wrong direction.

After three fulfilling days, nothing made sense. Nothing had integrity. It was that too-familiar dark place. And now the opportunities are pulled back within the limitations of the work week. My eyes are bound by blinkers. And no longer the good kind.

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