Wednesday

The morning brings my hummingbird, singing, resting on a bare branch, rain dripping down.  A new batch of flowers have opened up since the hard freeze.  I think this bird has taken ownership of this camellia bush.  It spies on me sometimes, hovering in front of my window, which in a bird, is endearing.

Later, sat and read these Joseph Campbell short stories I found at the library.  They were published as a collection in 2012, only one had ever been published during his lifetime.  He wrote them in the 1940's, prior to writing The Hero Has a Thousand Faces.  They had a mythological viewpoint, not in sync with either the "gritty realism" of Steinbeck or Hemingway, nor were they Sci-fi like Asimov.  There was no audience for them at the time, and then he devoted the remainder of his life to writing non-fiction.  I've read two so far.  I think there are six.

Getting ready to exit the bus, looking back to see how many people were still on it, I locked eyes with a woman a few seats back, one thin black line down her cheek, she held my gaze defiantly, neither of us speaking, until I broke it to walk out the door, into the cold, and quickly clearing night.

I've started to get up early and write again before work, still need to do physical centering, and to encourage my inner five-year old, but it's a start.  Two-and-a-half weeks.

I'm fighting off a cold again.  Sorting out the logistics of Christmas with my family, always complicated, and the project at work, which now has the slightest glimmer of hope that it might be completed before I go on vacation...things are slowly starting to turn.  I think I need to watch Christmas cartoons now, I'm feeling stress.

Good-night.