Writing is something I have always done. I’ve always loved it, whether I’ve been writing mostly terrible fiction, or muddling my way through prose, or attempting children’s books. I still want to write. My mind is busy with half-glimpsed projects, and images that demand capture. I have never felt both so utterly compelled to write and incapable of it at the same time.

I’ve organized my days, found a few moments in the afternoon and evening. But when those rare, silver-lined pockets of time come scudding across my sky, my words leave me. I sit there and type, retype sentences. What I want to say–the story I want to tell–is still there, hovering just out of reach. I feel like a dried out husk of naked tree trunk, swaying in the cold wind of late winter, praying that my roots are deep enough to hold me until spring.

It’s a season. A single season of a difficult year. The shade of an hour in a long day. A brief moment in the scope of a life.

Most people have struggled this year, in one way or another. I don’t pretend to think that my struggles are more than most–they are certainly less. I’m so thankful for where we are and all that this year has taught us. Still, I’m ready for spring. Praying for the sunlight. Hoping for that first burst of energy from a spring thunderstorm. Trusting that inspiration and color will come back, the way they always do after a winter.

Reaching.