Is writing a talent I have been given and am now burying in the ground waiting for it to multiply? I don't have anything to say here, in this public spot. I write in my journal but, upon examination, find that really none of it is for anyone else's consumption. I write that as if anyone else was consuming this!

Too many of the things I feel to write are 1. mental or emotional vomit; 2. spiritual in nature; 3. fleeting, brief, not worth the time it takes to log into this and recapture.

That all said--
I turn my head to look out my window and see the clear blue sky, early sun warming the neutral earthly colors and features to vibrant life. Greens of pinon, juniper, oak, cottonwood (this last barely visible through the Arizona juniper in the back yard). I live just above Cottonwood Creek. Can't see it or hear it from here--it is nearly silent from right on its narrow, brushy banks. But the cottonwood trees follow it faithfully from up as far as I have walked down past our house and on. My sister loves cottonwoods. They are her favorite tree. I think mine is ponderosa pine.

Light is life, gives life to everything. But there is a difference between light as opposed to dark and light as in sunshine. It is light outside now, but when the sun is covered by the clouds--as it is right now--the life in things is muted, neutral, as I said. Words come to mind like vivid, vital, words that come from the word for life itself--vivere: to live. That's what sunshine, sunlight does to and for the world. No wonder we are a bit less lively on overcast days.

So there. I've dug up my talent and aired it. A bit dusty, but back in the light.