When I finished reading through Breast Stroke again last night, I realized it is complete.
Maybe that is all I need to say. Complete!
Perhaps, a little more, as a brand-new stream offers momentum to trickle forth. I remember now when I was young I wanted to know how a stream begins. How does it start? A friend's mother packed some sandwiches for my friend and me, and we climbed and climbed, and ate ham and cheese sandwiches on a rock in the middle of the stream, and when we reached the top of the mountain, we discovered the stream started out beneath a little rock, just popped out there, like a brand new sprout. We stood on top of the mountain, amazed at how one begins and spreads.
Jane and I both saw the reflection of the sun this morning and felt it was rich and golden in a way we had never before seen. It comes up behind us, for both of us, when we look out and up from our computers, so we only see the change, and it was magnificent this morning. It is always different, but that forward footprint of the sun was even more spectacular today than ever before, and maybe that is part of the being done.
A book may finish, and the people writing it have to finish too, have to find their way to completion.
It becomes a task, a companion. What are you doing? Working on a book. Of course, that can be broadly interpreted to mean you are working on the mood to work on the book, so you may have to visit the beach or see if the salmon are present or work in the yard, but you are working on a book.
Maybe I needed in some way to be working on a book, and then, this week, I didn't want to be working on a book. I wanted a book to be done, and so it is.
It is done. I have no words for the strength of that relief.