Throughout the year, I’ve resisted thinking about the next day’s post so I wouldn’t scare stuff away. It’s what I have to do when I get really close to something writing fiction–under no circumstance do you think; stop thinking and just write. To this same end, every once in a while during the year, I wrote a word or two about a post on a scrap of paper just to get it out of my head where I couldn’t mess it up by thinking.
For these last ten posts, however, I took a sheet of paper and with intention gave some thought to what I might like to write about–how I might like to end–and then I jotted down a word or two and forgot about it until it was time to write the next post.
Here’s what I had written for today’s post:
When I’m here in Provincetown, I almost always know what time high tide will be, and low tide. I know whether the water’s on its way out or on its way back in. I listen for the moment the crank grinds to a stop and then starts moving in the other direction. Or I look up from what I’m doing and think, Here it comes… And I think of this line from Evidence by Mary Oliver,
Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.