Guilt crawls over me like a damp shadow. I haven’t cleaned the house, haven’t cooked, haven’t called the kids. Since listening to the podcast that revolutionized my world, I’ve been doing nothing but writing, or thinking about writing, or rewriting what I’ve already written.
I stared at the numbers on the scale this morning certain they must be wrong. I couldn’t have gained five pounds this week. There must be old batteries in that lying piece-of-crap. I replaced them and the numbers got worse.
That’s what I get for writing. It’s a sedentary, and for me, addicting endeavor. I can sit from sunup to long past midnight, engrossed and tuned out to everything but the story unfolding in my head. I used to forget to eat. Obviously, not anymore.
I should message my sister. Walk? Now? Mailbox? Cryptic, but she’ll respond immediately with something like, Yes! 15 min. Corn. The mailbox is east on 578th Lane. The field that once had acres of cornstalks is west. It’s a little bit farther to the mailbox. We do the corn on lower energy days when we’ve already expended significant outputs on household tasks.
I send the message.
Walk? Mailbox?
Her: No! Drive. Not a nice day!
Me: No need. I’m walking. I need the exercise. I’ll get the mail.
Her: Wait. It’s icy on the road. I’ll walk with you in the field. Trudge, that is.
Me: I’m happy to wait. What time?
Her: Now is good.
Me:
We went and I’m back. It took a little convincing for her to abandon the field-trudging idea. My sister is lovely. Stubborn and lovely. So we walked on the road to the mailbox in slushy snow.
Here’s a photo from yesterday.
This is today, 37°F, not good for snow. It’s 3:00 p.m. With the moisture-laden atmosphere, half ice, half mist, it’s already getting dark. The sun will set at four-thirty.
I was going through a journal from 2011 and found a metaphor I’d written on one such day as this before I left for Bali. Spring is a comma. Summer and fall are sentences. Winter is the boring novel that never ends.
I’m in a different headspace in 2024 than I was in 2011. Way different. Winter in Minnesota now feels like permission to hibernate, and at almost seventy-five years old, I’m so ready for the slow-down that this season brings…after Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, that is. Even here in Codgerville, we hit those at a gallop.
After I vacuumed, dusted, and shook the rugs I read for a while, The Singularity is Near, by Ray Kurzweil. It’s a fascinating book about the exponential growth of AI. The singularity, as I understand it, is when biological intelligence and artificial intelligence merge. Terrifying but inevitable. He’s also written another book. The Singularity is Nearer. I don’t recommend either one unless you’re a happy dystopian and cozy with the thought of nanobots cavorting through your capillaries.
Now the candles are burning, there’s a wintery fireplace scene with soft music playing on the TV.
Soon, my three Codger neighbors will appear for 5 o’clock social hour. We’ll discuss the disturbing article that appeared in the Aitkin Independent Age newspaper, catch up on who heard what from whom, and, if somebody says something that triggers it, we’ll spontaneously burst into song – a tune from the 60’s no doubt.
Oh! Excuse me. They’re at the door.
writing for self-discovery 
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