The sharp, sweet smell of basil

Starfish at low tide in Bandon.ORA mild anxiety has hovered upon me all day. I feel as if I am loosing something, or running from something, though I do not know what.  Is it the book, or more precisely, the done book I’m not writing any more? For 10+ years I was writing a book.  Now the book is written and published. I feel like as if my child has gone off to Kindergarten.  What will I do with myself?

Sure, as the publisher of the book I have written, there is plenty to do. There’s promoting, planning and hosting a Release Open House, finding a job that pays, and deciding on a new writing project.  There’s also laundry, cooking, dishes, gardening, exercising (me and my dogs), church, and catching up with friends.

Yet, with all this to do, I feel as if I am spinning my wheels.  I feel as if I’m not doing enough.  I feel scattered.

I want to feel focused again.  I want to feel as focused as I felt when I was writing the book, especially towards the end when the theme was sharp and beckoning.

Or maybe I’m just afraid that nobody will buy it. Nobody will come to the banquet.

This morning, I went into our backyard and plucked several basil leaves growing in a pot under my Clematis.  Even though my sense of smell is almost nonexistant, I took a deep whiff of the freshly picked fresh herb, and sighed. I could actually smell it.  The smell stayed with me all day. It was pugent and sharp, and sweet.

Writing a book is something like the sharp, sweet smell of basil.  There are the sharp times when the words, or my tired brain, just does not work. There is the rejection letter and the criticism from others. The “I feel useless” moments. Then there are the sweet times, times when the words come together to express the exact thought needed, and in those times, I am encouraged.


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