I feel a twitching in my finger tips
I read about Imbolc
I think about seeds buried deep
I sing a song about the coming spring to my daughter as we walk to school in the fog
I wonder if my blog still exists
I dust off my social media passwords, maybe live tweet something like the Super Bowl to remind myself that community can be fun
I read only “amature” authors, no professionals for a bit.
To remember that everyone started somewhere.
I think of FogCon and weekends hidden away in hotel rooms hunched over my keys.
I whisper intentions to the garden
and plant in perfect rows of specific hope
But this year… in 2017… when the unreal parts of the world are horrifyingly true
And a madman makes me wonder what the point of fiction even is
And the days are still long and the kids in crisis still show up at the Center door
And dystopia has arrived and my daughter is learning to read and wanting a promise that there are always happy endings
When I tell her that we are in the sad part of the movie before the hero arrives
When the Resist Hashtag is no longer hipster or ironic and has become instead
less scary than the Hashtag Accept
This year I am screaming my intention at the dirt and the sky
Hand flung seeds scattered to the wind
I am wild with purpose
and I watch as the force of my voice
and forces creation to bend to its will.