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The new venture in writing begins with the familiar tapping of keys. It feels good to be writing as myself again, to be focusing on what is real and present. I want to say something – perhaps an idea that will inspire – but nothing much comes to mind.
Walking out the front door to avoid the frustration of not meeting my own expectations, I can feel and see a change in the character of evening. The air tells me that summer is in retreat and autumn is on the way in the foothills of the high Cascades. Standing on the front porch and watching the grey clouds stack up against the dark green slopes, I cross my fingers, hoping that those clouds will dump enough rain down to saturate the ground and birth an early wave of yellow chanterelles.
But no strategy – not finger crossing, not shifting my feet in some kind of half-hearted rain dance – manages to deliver results. The clouds continue to gather unproductively in the distance. Nothing falls to earth tonight. I move back into the warm darkness of the house. It seems like a good time to crawl into bed.
