Feels like a routine. Even though I went to bed late last night, I’m up early and writing. January is nearly over. The summer holiday period is done, assigned by the calendar as history. It’s still uncomfortably hot and could be for a few months to come, nobody knows, but it’s trending that way.
I imagine the kids on day one at school. A fresh start. New blank exercise books, or do they do everything on laptops these days? After six weeks off, swimming, bike riding, tree climbing, turning brown in the sun, tangling fishing lines, eating on the run and driving Mu-um bonkers, is the art of getting the pen working again lost forever? Do bananas still get squashed in school bags?
There is a year ahead, and we humans know it. As much as the guru’s of modern living rant about being in the present moment and as hard as we try to do it because it does make sense in this anxiety ridden society, we can’t erase our ability for foresight. It’s hard wired, created by evolution and no amount of nurture can change that.
The writing stops … the pondering of possibilities washes through me and releases the pleasant neurotransmitters that have evolved to keep sentient beings hopeful and positive … the writing starts up again.