Randomness for Friday night

I can't believe how cold it is outside tonight.  I don't like winter at all, but I love autumn.  I found a poem recently that I wrote when I was around 12.  It's no good, so I'm not going to share it, but it ends with, "I know I'll always find a home in autumn."  And I do.  Every year.  Autumn feels like coming home.  It feels like a completion, a starting over, a turn of the wheel that brings me to a place of comfort.  Cool nights like tonight make me excited for this time.

*****

There are two themes that keep cropping up in my life right now.  Do you have that happen?  Does it sometimes seem that the Universe is trying to be tricky and sneak things into your life over and over and over again to try to make a point?  That happens to me all the time.  I've got two themes right now.  I should probably write about them.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will write about those themes.

*****

Tonight, though, I'm going to keep this brief.  For an introvert, this week was a lot.  I was on vacation Sunday/Monday (if you don't know how that went, go back 2 entries and start reading).  Tuesdays are my long days at work, and this Tuesday was followed by a "meet and greet" happy hour for the new post-docs.  Wednesday I had clients almost back to back from 10-7.  Thursday I had a full day of clients, followed by a 2 hour choir rehearsal (I'm going to write about this soon).  Today I had clients, and supervision, then taught a 2 hour didactic on "setting the occasion for problem behavior," and then I went to another happy hour for the clinic.  When you're an introvert, two happy hours in one week makes the week just a little too...happy.  It's not that I didn't enjoy it, it just zaps my energy.  I feel a bit like a deflated balloon at the moment. 

When you feel like a deflated balloon, it's hard to find things to write about.  When I was a kid, I never ran out of things to write about, and when I did, I just found something else.  I wrote a story about the stone lion in front of the library coming to life and taking me on adventures through storybooks.  When I was 14, I wrote a story from the perspective of a blue and white china plate in a flea market.  I really did.  And, my homeschool reviewer guy said it was one of the best things he had ever read.  Where did that creativity go?  Where did the inhibition come from?  It's been a long time since I've written fiction/a short story.  Maybe I'll try it again.  Why NOT write a story from the perspective of the ugly green frog bank on my dresser, or the Thomas the Tank Engine toy on the wall at Wal-Mart, or the book at the library that fell under the shelf and never gets read?

So I'll leave this now and plan on writing about themes tomorrow.  And about choir on Sunday.  And maybe I'll get creative after that.

That, my friends, is a plan.