None of the work gets done without a fair amount of pacing. At least two days a week I go off to the library at Saint Mary's College, usually with books to study, with a journal, with rough draft work to do for stories, but always with the intention of pacing. In North America March means the end of snow as well as the occasional fitful return of it, and the mind and body are fitful also, stirring from their winter slumber, moving into uncomfortable spring with all it's urgings to clean up the life, shake out the staleness, put away old stuff and do something new. Not just anything, but the vital thing.

I have always felt like this during this time of year.

Half the candles I put out to mark the progression of weeks from Imbolc to the Equinox are lit now and Kore comes closer and closer, soon she will arrive, the Maiden of Spring, with blossoms at her feet where she goes, hair smelling of sunshine and life. Now Lent is the time of Christ, but it was always hers. Long before Mary Magdalene sat at the tomb waiting for resurrection, it was Kore, singing of it. We come to one of those high times of the year when religion is written in the body and the air. We feel the crisis of death and the need for resurrection.

I pace, purify, and scribble.