Sometimes my relationship with writing disturbs me. It drags my mind into such focused attention that the rest of me gets lost. If I sit this morning to write a couple of sentences, for example, will I remember to change out of my wet dog-walking grubs, have a much-needed bath and wash my sleep-ironed hair? Will I notice my lunchless tummy grumbling at 2 pm, or my feet turning blue with cold from lack of movement at 4:00? In spite of myself I go ahead, start the first two sentences, and before I know it, another tome has risen on the blank sheet like a rock tor on the moors – Alone in the silence.
But not alone.
Always – the lark, whose thumb-sized body disappears in the heights of sky, whose voice fills acres of wind, surrounds me. Always – the mesmerizing drone of winged heather and gorse pollen-gatherers; Always – the clop or thunder of hooves chasing trail; or the soft sound of muzzels nudging and munching the nourishing vegetation on the next rise, assure me that I am not alone. Amongst my moor-misted companions, I forget tedious responsibilities until the chill damp sends me home to a hot bath and a cold sink full of yet-to-be-washed dishes.
The writer in me struggles with this daily conundrum: Which life is real – the sink that calls my name more than three times a day demanding attention? Or the screen and keyboard that replaced the broken pen and beckon, promising thoughts that drift from golden gorse to purple mounds and summer dew on silver webs?
Libby snores in answer behind me, her golden sides rising and falling with contented dog-walked sleep, bringing me back to the moment. My two intended sentences are complete and grown into several, and I realise with a satisfaction like a heroine-lover’s relief, that I’ve had my injection of words… yet, I want more.