Fog clings to the trees thick as spiderwebs
Like the one I passed on my morning walk
Hanging desperately in the branches,
Shot through with holes
Some monster punched in the night,
And the occupant,
Watches over the wreck of a dream
Because dreams can be rebuilt
When the fog lifts.
R. Lee Fryar
I like to think this is a hopeful poem. I wrote it back in the fall, when I was dealing with my first major setback in my publishing journey, and I resurrected it today to think about it. Because it’s a damned foggy day, and has been for a few weeks.
The verse is essentially what I saw that morning as I walked through the trees after a hard rain, surveying the orb weavers. Some of them were already at work repairing, but most of them were sitting patiently, waiting for things to dry out and brighten before they got to work again.
I’m guilty maybe more than I’d like to be of being an eternal optimist. I work hard. I’m not scared of setbacks. I’m not scared of things that knock me down for years. I’ve been through them before. But I’m also guilty of getting up from the ground before I’ve had time to process what happened to me.
There’s a time to rebuild dreams. There’s a time to wait, let the world dry out, let the dew drip off the ruins, a time to plan what comes next.
Right now, it’s a good time to wait. There’s a lot going on in the world—and not just the world at large, but the publishing world, my local world, my story world as well. Patience isn’t something I’m known for—unless it’s being patient with a cat, a frightened dog, or a story that just is taking time to come to a boil—but it’s something I’m trying to cultivate.
Here’s to rebuilding when the fog lifts.