frog pond, not peony

The palest of pinks 

with deep green leaves or a tabby cat.

Mountain laurel. Tabby cat. Paoneia.

Words. I used to love words, to write. 

I wrote poetry, novels, essays,

a few published, most not, but I kept writing,

because it was my way of understanding the world, and myself.

In the last few years I've lost that.

Maybe because I'm painting.

Maybe because I turned to blogging and now Instagram

which I love, but few words are required.

I still read constantly, but writing? 

Creative or otherwise doesn't have a place in my life.

It's sort of amusing that I'm thinking of returning to regular blogging to get back into writing. It's like I've forgotten how to write privately. I used to be obsessed. I worked as a lawyer in the family courts, cared for my three children, and wrote into the wee hours. Just me, pen and notebook, or later, computer. Word processor--who remembers that pair of words? Anyway, life... (that's an Instagram poem.) The thing is, I have one more tangle I really need to figure out, and the only way I think I can do it is by writing.

What I need to write about is a complex personal ecosystem. It's a frog pond, not a peony. It's a lot of dark and murky with some wildflowers and frogs and dragonflies mixed in. (Metaphors! Similes!) I'm thinking of blogging as my sketchbook. To be continued...