What do you write about when you feel absolutely uninspired to write anything? I’m still saying goodbye to summer, bogged down in this cool and/or humid rainy weather. The garden reflects this. Impatiens that didn’t succumb to the mysterious summer virus look as if they should have. Everything else is leggy and begging to be put out of its misery. I look at it and feel its pain, but don't do anything about it.
I know it’s time to buy pumpkins and mums and Indian corn. In other years I filled my window boxes with gourds, tiny pumpkins, fall flowers, and wheat stalks, deep orange bows, but I can’t imagine the level of energy needed to do that right now. Maybe next week. Or next year.
Meanwhile life goes on, though not in every case. I’m once again immersed in The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, as I have to moderate it for a book club this week. I'm still waiting to get to the happy part. Two husbands of friends have died recently, much too young, reminding me how precious and precarious it all is--that there isn’t time to sit around uninspired.
Perhaps you were feeling cheerful and motivated until you started reading this blog. In that case I’ll stop and go take an aspirin for the headache I woke up with. And you can get on with this beautiful fall day.