Winter's seedlings.

Last night I had a dream that Brian Adams fell deeply in love with me and would send me regular love letters filled with poems and lyrics. In my dream, I was his muse and inspiration and my letters to him were equally beautiful in a more literary way. I wish I could remember the words in the letters exchanged. I just remember how beautifully written and creative they were. I miss something in my life. A romantic kind of beauty. An inspirational kind of energy. Or just beauty. Once again, I have allowed myself to run down to below empty with my mundane routines. Chores, baby, work and the empty breeze. I don't even know what kind of beauty I'm looking for anymore or if it's something I want to work for anyway. Perhaps for once, I just want it to come to me. The weather has been terrible and relentless. Although we have our nascent vegetable and herb garden sprouting by the windowsill in our bedroom, I am ready for the ground in our backyard to ease up and soften under spring's failed promise warmth. I wonder if something as simple as running my fingers through the dirt, transplanting my seedlings to new bedding, and nursing my garden to full blossom is the spiritual healing I need. As of today, winter has won. Even on its way out, it is snubbing its nose at me with a long tail of cold air. I am glad for the longer days and sunlight but don't even feel like openning the door to brave one nerve-filled sting on my skin. These last few weeks, I will become a hermit, under my blanket in my quiet bedroom immobilized until summer's warmth can coax me out of solace.