I know what being in the zone feels like. I know the high that comes from doing things I love, of pouring myself into them and pushing my reserves until they are drained. I know what it feels like to fall into bed aching from a day of fierce gardening, or with my brain a sponge twisted dry from taking a vague thought and giving it access out my fingers.
I know that feeling and I want it now.
But it’s not here.
I can’t garden today because I have inside work; I can write but my eye keeps glancing out the window.
At the greening grass.
At the decay of the blooms that brightened my earth last year and now stand like dried flags trying to get my attention. “Tend me!” “Care for me!”
Some days I get to pick my high, but some days my high is picked for me. And today’s has been chosen.