Today, at the beginning of March, there are just a few patches of snow left in the valley. The land is khaki brown, devoid of fresh colours for the time being. Each tree is completely bare. The ground has thawed and mud now oozes out plentifully, but there is still snow in the air. We are living in the bated breath of spring.
I’ll be turning forty in a few days. My husband pointed out this means that I’ve spent a quarter of my life with him.
I have spent the winter productively and now have eighty thousand words which form a mildly amusing account of our adventures in the Czech Republic. I wanted to write something for us, before we forget, and also for my grandmother – now ninety three, her health issues now prevent her from coming here to visit.
I really enjoyed the process of writing, especially when the plot unexpectedly thickened into a narrative. Now I am leaving the first draft to settle – three months is necessary, though this will bring us to mid-summer – a time for scything at dawn rather than sitting in front of a computer. Currently, I keep thinking of things that I have left out of the first draft, but I’m resisting the temptation of running back to it.
It’s now time for active life again – to plant seeds in pots, repaint and repair the winter damage. The snow was the greatest excuse. It did not so much cause as disguise the disorder, and some part of me wishes it back.