This is inspired by Kat's post about her walk (Illuminate). I've been unhappy with the progress on my novel revisions, which means I've been unhappy with my writing since the novel has pushed everything aside, even though all the stories need attention, too.
At about noon today I saw a weather forecast that suggested we were in for 6 wet days ahead (with one of those rainy icons showing snowflakes mixed in). I looked out at my lawn and thought ahead to the jungle I'd have in a week, and stopped work, filled the gas tank in the lawn tractor, and headed out. I don't hate mowing, which my father, if he were here to hear, would disbelieve. The daffodils are gone, but the redbuds are close to their peak--and I have a couple of dozen redud trees in my yard--the dogwoods are about to open, and there are violets and phlox everywhere, not to mention the leaf buds that are just waiting for a string of sunny days to burst open. I raced around the yard, dodging low branches I should have pruned, watching the clouds roll in. The darker it got, the breezier it felt and the cooler it was. A turkey vulture circled and I wondered what prey it was looking for, and hoped it wasn't me. I skipped one stretch of yard that looked like it could wait, I smelled the wild onion and early mint, I chased off the mating mallards in my creek, I spooked a squirrel from the bird feeder, I buzzed the early yellow jackets and wasps and carpenter bees, and I tried not to hear the thunder over the roar of the tractor. But the first drops I couldn't ignore. One more pass, close enough to done, park the tractor, close the gates. The rains came and I felt like I'd accomplished something, at least.