Some days just turn out to be not all that good. Some days are dreary and cold and dark and tired. Some days were meant to just slide by unnoticed, or at least would have been better that way. Maybe it's the longing for spring, maybe it's the return of winter, or maybe it's not weather related at all, but today was grouchy. The sky, the people, the animals, even the inanimate objects in our home were grouchy, and they didn't have eggplant at the market. We didn't exercise, we didn't make bread, we're lucky we made it to the store, which is saying something since we were up and ready for swimming in time for a class that turned out not to be scheduled for today because the rest of the world is on spring break. Spring? You've got to be kidding.
When we feel this way, which thankfully isn't often, we usually turn to books but today we turned to writing, after the store and a short afternoon nap, that as. Calvin wrote poems and I wrote an analysis of the book I finished last night, Bailey's Cafe, getting to three pages before I started wondering what was the point of writing something nobody was likely to read. Maybe the point was the relaxation, or the way I could write while secretly watching Calvin meander through his own poetry over the top of my computer (because I found years ago that I write like I talk—too much—and if I write my ramblings by hand my fingers are sore all the rest of the day and I can hear the felling of trees in rainforests everywhere, so now only my journals are hand written). Writing our lives, I'd like to think. Spending the in between times on writing our lives, so that even the badish days count for something.
