Saturday, 12 March 2022, 0643
The rain has been falling most of the night, and even though we are nearing mid-March, heavy snow will fall within the next few hours, bringing up to five inches in some areas north and west of Interstate 95.
This is our home, where variations of seasons blur the lines of winter, spring, summer, or fall. There are no absolutes; only winds that bring cold, driving rains into the heart of sun-filled days. Like all Marylanders who have chosen this to be their home, we have come to embrace it.
This, too, is the place where I call home, both within and among.
I am the weather of our region. The seasons within blur their own lines with no absolutes. The song of myself is a pastel blend of snow and sun, wind and rain, weaving and whirling a good long life of weathered experiences that bring me to today, where the rain has been falling most of the night, and snow is on its way.
Last night, I shared on social media that I had made the decision to change the entire focus of this space called The Baltimore Writer. Years ago, in 2019, I wrote this post intimating my hopes of doing just this, but I wasn’t ready yet. The idea was there, but not the full understanding of what I needed to do. And maybe more importantly, why. When I wrote that post, I was just months away from publishing Fossil Five, and I had great expectations for what it might become, and how far of a readership it might earn. I was trying to do too many things at one time: launch a writing career and be a more authentic artist and human. I got the order mixed up, though, and I put the platform before the person.
I remember talking to my brother Warren about such things when he was struggling between his art and what he wanted out of life. I told him long ago that I thought he should focus on his art, and let everything else take care of itself. It will follow.
I guess now I am listening to my own words, the song of myself is emerging more authentically, and I have found this space to be the place to call, humbly, my home. These are my “Leaves of Rus.”
The wind howls louder as the rain drives more urgently against my window, a repetitive tat-tat-tat that reminds me of the words I spoke to my brother so many years ago.
This is the song of myself.
I am home.
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