The old tree, leafing out. Dead limbs and broken stubs easily seen.

Spring is here, and with it comes my usual restless desire for “new”, “different”, and
“change”. Once that meant running away from the house and my grandmother to play in the woods, where I built tree houses, swung on grapevines and made stick horses. Between the ages of 10 and 14, a hundred yards from the house meant freedom from grown-up’s prying eyes and intrusion into my fantasy worlds.

Tuxedo in front of my computer — which features a picture of him.

Today, it is my desk, my computer, the pile of bills and responsibilities from which I want to run. Realistically, there is no place far enough to escape their intrusion. Like childbirth, the only “escape” is to finish up the job, and get on with life. Even then, you know that the life “before” and the life “after” will be different.

Maybe my problem is that my editor rating dropped significantly after a mis-judged article; maybe the just-before-payday minimal balance in the bank account, maybe its the stack of papers waiting to be graded, or even the giant tree limb in the side yard. Whatever the problem is, at 10:30 am, I found that I have no more writing in me for a few hours.

I can’t run away to the hills and woods today. I do have to come back inside, write the articles, grade the papers and maybe even get a chapter or two of fiction written. But I can make my escape to the garden. In a world of disasters, big tree having dropped another limb, my garden is my guilt-free escape from sitting in a chair staring at a screen.