I have spent a lifetime pursuing matters that seem built upon lines: lines of melodies, lines of drawings, lines of words.
When working in the thickets and tangles of plants in the garden I keep seeing parallels to writing -- especially in the last few years, as I have introduced myself (in the excellent company of lifemate Martha) to the realm of grape vines and other flowering and fruiting bushes and trees and vines.
One of the pleasures of creative activity is the enriching light it sheds on other activities ... or other lines.
Blogwriting on these connections -- on vines, wines, and lines -- occurred to me, a year or two ago.
I am not one to hurry into a latest-thing-to-do. Not even into yesterday's latest.
Today, wading in snow, I was clipping back raspberry canes. Entangled in them is netting against birds -- placed there in late summer, and left there as the canes grew higher to entangle them firmly with prickles and leaves. I hoped to clip the netting free, and clip down the canes, much sooner than this.
Today, belatedly beginning this particular small task, I quit before finishing: cold fingers, and a Scottie named Lorna who wanted back inside.
This, here, now: another small task, in its beginning.