Ode to Frog, Bird and Sun

A Struggling Writer-Mom's Journal Entry

April 20, 2009

Ok. Again. I seem to really be resisting writing. What's going on? Is my life too simple right now? I don't buy that. Look at the simple lives Thoreau and Emerson made for themselves. And Emily Dickinson. Too simple isn't a cause. I think that perhaps I'm shying away from sitting and thinking. Shying away from observations, from writing about that noisy little frog in the algae-ridden puddle of a pond outside my bedroom. That little frog with the large gravelly voice. I shy away from writing down such observations and the way they make me happy with the sun warming my knees while I write with my notebook across my lap. There we go. That's what I haven't been writing *croak croak* and it's what I've been dying to write.

I've never caught a frog. I don't think I've ever even spied one in the woods. I've let a friend hand over one of those clammy, sticky creatures to globe up in my palms, but I've never had the joy of discovering one myself.

This little fella sounds awfully close. Like if I took about eight steps he'd be under my toes or hopping up them. But I tried looking five minutes ago and he was silent as a clam and hidden from view.

Maybe I saw tree frogs in the wild once. On my own. In Costa Rica on my honeymoon. They were bright red. And bright blue? I don't recall.

Now I hear these marvelous birds. There's a little scraping noise this one makes as it moves from branch to branch. Yesterday the kids and I saw a blue jay holding a giant yellow worm-like bit of food in its mouth. It flew low from one shrub to the next, but gave up on it. We were laughing because we kind of think it's a pair of candy bunny teeth (like squishy upper dentures) that the Easter bunny left in our back yard last week. We found one gnawed-on candy wrapper, sitting on a railroad tie step. Maybe the critter that opened it didn't actually eat it. The bird ended up ditching the candy in the ivy, too.

We watched a blue jay earlier in the week seeking twigs for a nest in the red blossom tree. I don't know the tree's real name -- that's the best I can do for now. Besides, the point is: this marvelous little creature was testing the weight and strength, we supposed, of various twigs and straws and grasses. We watched him/her hop and test, finally choosing a three inch long pale twig and zip up to the tree where we're so happy s/he's making a nest.

At least it's sunny around here. To think that six days ago it was 30 degrees and snowing, followed by hail pellets the size of beebees, is just nearly unbelievable. I don't like Spring snow. I like heat and sunshine and warm breezes. Thank goodness I believe we've turned a corner with 70 degrees all weekend and promise of 80s and higher the rest of the week.

Maybe my inspiration for writing is aligned with the sun. Now that I can see and feel it more, perhaps my words will hit the page like the sun's rays hit my skin.