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I went for a run this week.  It was cold and raining, and uphill both ways (okay, maybe it just felt that way) but it was the only day this week when I could do a real run outside.  (I did not take the slobbering beast, because while he’ll spend hours outside in the snow, apparently he’s allergic to rain.  And although I need increased upper body strength, dragging his 70 pound carcass along the road does not seem to be the way to best achieve that goal. )

So I went, and I grumbled to myself for at least the first mile.  Then it started to pour, and I was too uncomfortable to grumble, and then somewhere along the way I kind of forgot about how miserable I was making myself and just focused on being — on the rain hitting my face, the rhythm I’d fallen into, the way my muscles were stretching and unfurling and really being used for the first time in a long while. And I thought how lucky I was to be doing this, outside on this New England spring day.

As always, my writing is falling into the same pattern.  I find myself making tentative tracks on the computer, grumbling about how hard this is, how I’m out of practice, how I’ll never get it right.  I have to concentrate and set tiny goals — just one more sentence!  just X number of pages by Friday! —  and somewhere along the way I forget to grumble to myself and find the rhythm again that reminds me just how lucky I am to be doing this.

Wherever you are, whatever your spring is, may you feel lucky too.

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