Part of the life, or psyche, as a writer is riding highs and lows of creativity. Sometimes I have so many ideas that it’s painful to not have more hours in the day to explore and poke at them. Other times, I have the luxury of free time, but zero ideas percolating.

I, like many readers, have a long list of books I want to read. They’re titles and authors accumulated through personal rec’s, book reviews, podcasts, everywhere really. I’d say I have about several dozen, but not more than 100, books on the list.

Never has spring felt so good. So promising. So essential. While I’m still cautious – internally and behaviorally – I’m also being pulled by the tide of hope that’s affecting everyone.

We’ve been Connecticut residents for 5.5 months now.

I know I’m not alone in my trippy-dippy relationship with time this past year. Days flow one into the other, a weekend indecipherable from a weekday. It’s April, no June, January?!—it’s all the same as we want to fast forward to better times and yet are stuck on groundhog day.

Watching this hawk eat a mouse, I hopelessly wished it were the mouse in our bedroom wall that’s woken me up every night this week.

And then they came to the end. Or at least the start of a new chapter…

It’s bad. Physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, I am deteriorating.

You’re with me, right??

It’s slow and insidious, but it’s happening.