Tomorrow I will be on the road again. Being on the road I don't mind so much, the stuff I'm having a hard time with does not involve the landscapes I'll see and the miles I'll drive.
This is only a base feeling for the deeper butterflies. Sure, March in West Texas is brutally windy and it is thoroughly unpleasant to go outside and eat dirt in the air. So escaping that is a plus.
But being away long enough for the weeds to take over the yard irks me. Being so far away from my tools and supplies has me crawling with hives. Packing enough clothes, let alone shoes for several weeks just has me in a tither.
I'm so torn up, I haven't eaten right in days. All my brushes and tools and choices are set up and laid out so that when inspiration strikes, I just grab and get to work. The weather is finally starting to get nice, nice enough that I don't want to stay buried under five blankets for warmth all day. Nice enough that I want to spend my afternoon outside, writing or gardening or watching the birds flit about.
This is so very weird for me. I love to travel, especially in the Spring. For years I felt that I needed to be in San Antonio in the Springtime, watching the preparations for Fiesta, absorbing all the colors and excitement. Wandering the Hill Country to see all the miles of reds, blues, yellows - wildflowers and bluebonnets in bloom.
That's home to me. That's what I crave and enjoy.
Please, oh, please, let me find some creative joy out of this excursion.