I’m uncertain if it is artic weather, lockdowns, or my natural aversion to going places where I might need to interact with strangers. This weekend marked a change, and I found my rhythm. Some items which have languished on my To-do list have reached completion status. Nobody was more excited than I was to cross them off, mark them done, and say, “Goodbye forever.” Other assignments are inching forward. Some require me to push massive granite boulders up a steep incline, while others, I am convinced, are stubbornly immovable objects. Then there are the spooky, self-possessed tasks that mimic the mysterious Sailing Stones of Death Valley’s Racetrack Playa. Given the rare, precise conditions of ice, water, and wind, those jobs complete themselves.
Later, there will be an opportunity to ascertain the planetary alignment, contemplate the forces creating the perfect storm, and analyze my wonky perspective. For now, it must wait. My focus is not upset a balance I don’t fully understand. I strive to go with the flow, nudge, entourage, and witness serendipity in action. My head is bruised and bumpy from banging it against the proverbial brick wall, I nurse sore muscles from heavy lifting, and bandage scrapes from falling too many times to count. I am praying for the extended play version of the Matrix Effect when time slows down while everything happens in a flash. I keep stoking the fire, piling task after task onto the pyre, hoping against hope that I can clear as much backlog as possible while this phenomenon lasts.
Do you accomplish more when it’s cold?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer