Onus of the empty page

It has been hard, lately, to fill a page.  Many ideas present themselves as I'm walking around the neighborhood, taking in the the infancy of spring.  I never doubt that one will prove worthy of a few paltry paragraphs. But as I pursue them, first one, then another, I discover that none is quite as rich as its promise.  And yet, my compulsion to write remains.

And so, here I am.

Each year, when the winter passes, human hearts tend to lift a bit.  Certainly, that is true for me.  But the winter through which we have just passed was not so dreary as winter's often can be, here in our temperate rainforest.  Or perhaps it just seems so.

It probably has to do with the so far unfulfilled expectations of disaster.  Accurate or no, one can only brace one's self for the worst for a short while.  Then comes the fatalistic shrug.

Blossoms are out now.  Nature's own Paxil.  And I just never get tired of this...

View from west slope of Mt. Tabor, just above the low reservoir