 Industriousness is held in high esteem – achieve, produce, accomplish, cross things off the list. The call to industry looms constantly in the background, urging me to action. But it’s too hot. Today, I’d like to be as industrious as this frog in my pond, who let me get within a foot of him so I could examine his handsome green snout, the golden rim around his eye, the soft webbing between his toes. I didn’t get closer. Why disturb someone so peacefully still and content? He’s breathing, resting, probably keeping watch for food opportunities, perhaps digesting, cooling his belly. That is a lot of industry right there. Why can’t it be enough for me? My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 351: 114 words, TOTAL = 57,682; 2,318 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
November 2021
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