the blue muse

Lately, I feel silent. Not blocked or repressed or even melancholy, just silent.

So I sit with the quiet—watching life race by—with the patience of a flower waiting for dawn. It is the year of listening, after all, the word that found me back in January, the word that hovers over my left shoulder wherever I go. Maybe it’s age or grief or that other word, grace. Maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Not the bone-tired version, the depleted one.

Maybe I’m tired of trying on hats and never finding one that fits. Which makes perfect sense, because I don’t look good in hats. Some people do. My sister does. My grandmother did. I do not. But that’s okay. I kind of like the wind in my hair.

The sun is shining this morning and I know that I will find a way to get outside and feel it on my face. My freckles are tired of hiding in the background. It’s the season of renewal and I am tired of winter’s layers. March, the ever-steady soldier, marches on… eyes forward, almost there, almost there. In just a day or two, all will be surrendered to April.

The grackles and blackbirds croak and beep at a sky not ready to embrace them. No leaves yet for camouflage, no deep pools of shade. Perhaps we’re all feeling just a bit overexposed.

I think of all the mornings just like this one and wonder at the dust they’ve collected. Even so, I choose to leave them undisturbed. It’s not time for spring cleaning, yet.

I always sing when I clean and lately, I feel silent.

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