Thursday, August 20, 2020

The Resting Spot

This week was a crush of writing and rain; by Wednesday evening I felt as though I had run a marathon at a sprint. Last night's storm was an articulation of the crashing spirit of exhaustion.

The blog post is edited and submitted. I crafted and then drafted a syllabus, which might serve as the framework for a research proposal; it's the second in what is becoming a series. The editor of an anthology sent me a set of artwork for the upcoming discussions of the stories, pieces that each have a philosophical query at their heart. The abstract for an upcoming conference presentation is sitting in The Resting Spot. I, too, am in a still space today. My calendar has no due dates or task lists, and I've set the phone on Do Not Disturb. There will likely be another patch of rain this evening; I can feel the subtle shifts in the muscles around my skull, just above the right temple. The contractions move my glasses just a bit, like an affectionate great aunt tugging my ear, feeling as though The Way is beckoning me to join it in the quiet. 

Classes begin in ten days, and I'm considering setting an out-of-office automatic replay as I sit with the end of a season. Half-past August always has that gathering-up-to-move energy for me. Writing, music, knitting, the fiction of philosophy. This is my vacation. This is my world.