Spring has sprung

How can I tell?

Well, it might be the tightly furled buds just bursting on the hawthorn. It could be the host of golden bloody daffodils* nodding in the spring breeze. It could be the birdsong at 5am, or the lambs gambolling in the fields (or indeed, the butterflied lamb with rosemary pesto marinating in my fridge). It might be the perennials surfacing in the garden, or the blackbirds with their beakfulls of moss and lichen for lining their nests.

Perhaps the brighter sunshine and warmer days is the real signal, or the mad rush of seasonal gardeners to the plant centres.

The warming of the earth, the rising of the sap, the dancing of the dance.

All of the above are signals of spring I recognise. But the reason I really know it's spring... is because my well of creativity overfloweth.

Often my particular well is like the well at Beeston Castle, where one drops a stone down the shaft, enthusiastically counting the seconds. After ten seconds you get a bit bored, after twenty you convince yourself you must have missed the thunk of the stone hitting the bottom. You've just got time for a short theoretical discussion about wind resistence and maximum velocity before the speeding stone takes advantage of a gap in the conversation to go PLOP into the water.

Yes, there is water there, but it's a Looooooong way down.

At the moment, however, my creative well is doing an impression of a geyser. There are so many characters, stories, plots and daydreams running round my head it's hard to keep up. The long drive back from my parents was excellent - I think I wrapped up three daydreams in that trip alone. I keep going to bed early, the better to lie there in peace and explore the mental world. But then I fall asleep and dream vivid dreams all night instead.

Shakespeare called for a Muse of Fire. Could I possibly have a dictaphone** that records direct from brainwaves instead?

Who knew creativity could be seasonal?


* Remind me to tell you someday about the wholesale, ignorant, revolting vandalism of the countryside performed by individuals 'improving the environment' by planting bloody daffodil freaking cultivars because of some bloody romantic freaking poet. Go To A Happpy Place. Go To A Happy Place....

** "Can I use your dictaphone?" "No, use your finger like everyone else."