I have been writing a long time. Having just watched “The Last Waltz,” I am thinking that my writing, at least to me, is a bit like playing the piano instead of the keyboard. Why? Because I am feeling my way though a note or an essay, much as a musician would. Maybe that is why I love Leonard Cohen so much. I fall asleep every night listening to him. I want my words to be felt more than thought about. So musicality comes into play.

It’s been raining all day here, that cold January rain that dampens the spirit. The blues comes from such a mood, that feeling of being trapped in a situation you do not prefer. That is how winter affects me.

Last night I had weird dreams again. The elevator was running through town horizontally instead of vertically and I couldn’t manage to hit the right button. Not only that, I was wearing a fur coat and carrying two purses. At some point they fell off and I was naked. Lost and naked is how the ego feels in dreamland and also in waking life. We put on so many coats of paint that no one can know who we truly are, least of all ourselves.

I long for spring so the deck repair can start; it didn’t ever get off the ground last year. I was so sick that I didn’t want to deal with it. My voice may never return to normal; it has been long enough now that if it was going to, it would have.

Who is Vicki and why is she so private? Those who know me would wonder the same thing. Death has defined me like nothing else. Life has just shaped itself around it. Vernon Howard took a huge chunk of time out of my life and repackaged it as eternity. All he taught me bears fruit, the fruit of severity, the seedlings of grace. Nothing happens without a reason or a consequence. I like to think my lessons here have shown others how to tie a knot and hang on. Letting go is not an option. One has to find reasons to live after loved ones die.

So maybe my music here is meant to stir something in you that might not be otherwise. I tire of positive thinkers and their magic bullets of aspiration. I have taken the hard road so that now my life is easier, rather than vice versa.

Nevertheless, on a rainy January Sunday, I yearn for spring, which will come in its own sweet way and time.

Vicki Woodyard