Where I grew up, there were no tornadoes. There was sun and rain and snow. Our natural disasters were floods, blizzards and occasional riots. Tornadoes never crossed my mind, except when I watched The Wizard of Oz.
Now I worry about tornadoes. I don't worry about humidity or rain. Though I rant about any temperature over 75 degrees, I live where the heat is celebrated as "dry." Despite my complaints, it is better than the other, wetter kind. Nights and early mornings are always cool -- the best parts of summer days.
Lazy summer evenings. Dreams percolate, lull you into belief.
In this evening's dream, I live in a small mountain cabin. I wake before sunrise. I sit and write at the kitchen table. I type and type and type and type, sipping my iced latte, glancing at the sun's climb. It's chilly; I'm in a cozy hoodie. I write for several hours. I go back to sleep for a while, wake again, do yoga, eat a nice breakfast, and continue writing.
I also write late into the night.
I'm silent on these dream days, alone but not lonely.
Zoom the camera out: I'm the figure in the window, bent over a laptop, illuminated by the computer's glow. Concentrating.
Zoom further. Hold your breath. I am going to tiptoe behind myself, see what I am typing. What is this project in which I'm so delightedly lost? Is it a novel? A memoir? A cookbook? A compendium of jokes? I suspect something grandiose, yet humble. What is it? Is it my abandoned thesis?
Whatever it is -- does it need me to write it? I feel like it does. I'm holding my breath, about to discover what it is.
