“‘For a while’ is a phrase whose length can’t be measured, at least by the person who’s waiting” (Haruki Murakami). We live in a winter that started last spring and will not end until this summer or fall. But spring will eventually follow winter, as it always does. And so I wait, for a while. In the meantime, I write. Not about the pandemic, but through it, tilling the fertile soil of imagination from which spring sprouts. For more thoughts about writing, see REFLECTIONS.
