What a difference a day makes?

After R’s comments got me thinking first thing this morning, I decided I’m liking my “back-to-practice” analogy. Diving back into the water after a few weeks away is something I had a lot of experience with in the past, and I suspect I can use my visceral memory to bump my brain into gear. Though swim practice has the advantage of Coach getting one moving rather than mere adult persistence. Oh well!

After R’s comments got me thinking first thing this morning, I also got a writerly thread going — by 9am, no less! It was a clever piece, if I do say so myself, and it was pleasing to get up and at ’em so smoothly for a change.

Pity it turned out to be a tissue of lies spawned from a mistaken memory or two. Surprisingly, realizing I’d burned an hour and a half into ash did not make a dent on my good mood. It did make a dent in the flow of my day — that’s why I’m now writing at 9pm (well, 8:20, but that’s not as tidy).

But the little idea-bubbles kept cheerily floating along most of the day. Pretty much up until I grabbed the keyboard…

…when they all popped, and I couldn’t remember what they looked like. When all else fails, write about process. Voila.

It might be interesting to see whether the tone of my posts correlates to the time of day they’re composed. Oh, wait. I use the “schedule” function in WordPress, so 90% of my posts’ times are fictitious. So much for that idea. Silver lining: I don’t enjoy managing statistics, and now I have  a solid reason for not getting around to compiling these!

Coming full circle on my day, 

I began this morning with a line from Bull Durham: “‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, / And waste its sweetness on the desert air.’ Thomas Gray. Or William Cullen Bryant, I get them mixed up.” (Annie Savoy)

It’s a worthy line in a poem pointing out all the good work done in utter obscurity and one which, in contrast to my pre-writing mood, tries to celebrate good work done under whatever circumstance.

 I went astray because I originally mis-remembered Annie’s line, in addition to forgetting the poem’s title. The poem, by the way, is “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” and it is by Thomas Gray. Do read it; there are lots of good quotes in it you likely thought were Shakespeare’s. And if you can’t hack your way through Romantic rhyme schemes (I can’t), try reading it aloud, or mumbling. That’s what works for me.

But today Thomas Gray brought me a little serendipity, a little wonder, and enough comeuppance to make me laugh, shake my head, and value my obscurity. 

And tomorrow brings yet another day, God willing! Will it make all the difference, too?

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