Shorter Days

The pesky privets and pyracantha in our back yard are berried out.  The birds will be here soon to repaint the cars with their monochrome white palette.  How those weightless creatures can be so messy stymies me.


I'm never prepared for the shorter days and the impending desire to hibernate that I feel so strongly.  If it weren't for the need for exercise and healthy living, I'd probably never move from in front of the computer or the comfort of my cozy sofa.  Winter makes me recall fondly (though foolishly) the snowy seasons of my youth when I didn't have to dress children in snowsuits, constantly clean up their puddles of melted snow just inside the door, brave the elements for another run to the grocery store, bring in the (literally) frozen sheets and clothes that had been hanging outside to dry.  I've lived in and visited snow in my adulthood and would not choose to do it again.  The adult version is much less romantic but for those few hours after a snowstorm when the sounds of the world are muffled by the natural acoustic insulation that had fallen from the sky. 

I suppose this is the time when writers are supposed to be their most creative--locked in their writers' caves distracted less by the chirping birds and the dappled light through the foliage.  There is, however, a folding in of mind and body that occurs in the colder weather.  It's like the spring crocus closing at night in order to restore itself for the new day.  Does that mean that writers who live closer to the equator are more prolific?  Or is it just that they are more likely to be drawn outside to ponder nature and muse in preparation for writing?

I'd like to think I will prevail.  A season-free writer, if you will.  The words will continue falling from my mind onto the keyboard come rain, sleet, snow and sun.