I'm fighting too many weeds and too many other factors: the soil is too sandy; slugs and birds and moles are too hungry. Even now, at pruning time, when every thing should be dormant, this garden is a patch of ugly weeds, and in a few weeks the blackberry vines will invade anything and everything if not eradicated drastically.
We've come a long way to give up now, I tell myself. No way! That Cecil Brunner Rose will cover the trellis with fragrant tiny pink roses in just a couple of weeks and if I look carefully among the weeds I'll find both the geranium and the parsley needing a bit of help to survive the invasion of beach grass in their spaces.
I feel the same way about my writing. For years and years, I dreamt of the time when I could leisurely let my thoughts out, one at a time, and each would be a beautiful flower to cultivate, to encourage, to share and rejoice about.
Writing feels exactly the same as cutting down and eradicating weeds in search of a tiny geranium bush that needs to see the light of day. There is so much stuff that has invaded my brain. Even for a clear moment when something begins to emerge, for that moment, hours of labor have produced so little, such a puny result. Confidence does not grow in dark corners.
This space will evolve.
Today it is just full of weeds.