The Wonder Of Spring . . . And Indolence (Patricia Potter)i

As I reported last week, I just finished the preliminary stage of my next book. Now I'm on pins and needles awaiting the verdict of the editor and her suggestions for revisions. I like revisions. Another voice. New ideas. A chance to perfect work after several weeks of being away from it. It always improves the book.

At first, you never think so. At first, your reaction is, "Say what?"

The second is, "You're going to ruin my book."

The third is, "Hey, maybe she has a point."

The fourth is: "Gee, I'm glad I have a good editor."

So now I'm in that purgatory of waiting, and am enjoying a certain indolence while doing so. Indolence: "Adverse to activity, effort or movement."

I feel it's well deserved after the mad marathon dash to deadline. Indolence feels good.

It particularly feels good in spring.

Nothing is as beautiful as Memphis in spring. I often think I would like to move to the coast, or the mountains, or the desert, but then I experience Spring in Memphis and all such notions flee. It is very good to be indolent in spring in Memphis. I can take a leisurely walk and gaze with delight at all the blooming azaleas, and dogwoods and peachtrees. There's hardly a home that's not surrounded by red and pink and yellow blooms. And I love all the budding trees and new growth. My Crepe-myrtle in back appeared dead five days ago; now it's alive with tender green leaves. I watch with wonder.

I did rouse myself enough to venture to the garden store and purchase any number of Impatiens and Geraniums, but I'm too indolent to plant them at the moment. Instead, they decorate my patio with color. I think I'm going to spend the day out there, reading the first book in a month, and just enjoying the many birds -- robins and blue birds and wrens --that visit me.

There's lots of stuff to do after weeks of sixteen-hour writing days. And I did do some of it this past week. I haven't been a total slackard. I straightened my desk which was piled two feet high with discarded chapters. I paid bills, some of which -- alas -- had been lost in said pile. I bought some real food, along with late birthday presents. I shoveled out the house. But this weekend is devoted to nothing. And so now I'm going to return to that state of indolence. By the way, the dictionary says it also means "Inclination to laziness; sloth."

I'm very good at being slothful.

But in the meantime, since I've been singing the praises of springtime in Memphis, what is it that you like best about the place you live?

And do you have these wonderful moments of complete and utter laziness?