Under the sleeping grass

under the sleeping grassIt’s been quiet in the forest this month.  For me, February is the stillest of months.  More than the winter solstice, February feels like the turning point of winter towards spring.  This transition is largely hidden, occuring below the surface of the cold earth.  Snowdrops and early bulbs indicate that the stasis is only apparent.  Underneath the layers of muck and decay, there is a bursting, an impatience for new growth.

I feel like that.  I have many plots to tend this spring.

My work with HeyMath! has restarted.  There was a period of about 9-months during which the project was at a lull and I focused more on my own writing and creating writing groups.  But now the project is entering a new phase and my trip to Chennai in January was to meet with the team to shape the next year’s work.  We planted so many seeds during my time in India, now we are nurturing them.  It is wonderfully rewarding to see something that we put so much heart and thought into over many years gaining momentum.  We expect our materials to be in classrooms very soon!

The Writing Circles have entered a third round, with faces both familiar and fresh. We are in a different location and the group has a different tone. I believe that the people who show up each round are the exact people who hold the next puzzle pieces in how this vision of mine will all fit together.   Right now, I’m immersed in the challenge of finding ways to use what I learned in the autumn Writing Circles to help develop and define the current experience.  I’m after some kind of mysterious, shifting middle ground between reinventing the wheel and sounding like a broken record. Instead of the heady, breathless excitement of just starting out, it feels more like the crafting and drafting of revision.  The writing process, the creative process, they are all iterative.

And on a personal level, I’m aware of  big events in the lives of my friends and family.  Some joyful, some difficult, some whose boons are unknown.  These stories may be mine to hold, but not to tell.  They are others’ stories, yet they fill my mind and heart and bring me to stillness, trying to make a space for understanding.

It all adds up to a lot of activity under the sleeping grass in one tree bohemia.

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