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  • Scott Carter Cooper

March First

I’ve developed a rather annoying sleep pattern that is aggravated in the winter. No matter what time I go to bed, I find myself wide awake by four o'clock and then ready to complete my night’s sleep at six. Back in the olden days, when I had to go somewhere to work, this could be problematic. Now, the single blessing of Covid is that the commute to my day job is reduced to less than ten seconds and the need for blow drying is almost nonexistent, I find I have at least two more hour of productivity in my day. Some of the creative work I have the most pride in came from these two hours.


In general, I respond well to structure and scheduling. For instance, I have a personal deadline of completing a full-length play by Labor Day. If I didn’t, I would have one very long, very detailed play that was never finished. Even years after my formal education I get excited with the beginning of September. It marks the start of becoming a new person.


Many people find the grayness of winter depressing, but the dormancy of January and February holds a certain amount of comfort for me. Even in the depths of poverty I’ve been fortunate enough to always have a warm home to keep me safe, and plenty of food to keep me fed. These two things have given me the cocoon I need for reflection and imagination. Yet, looking back over my life, I have realized that this time hasn’t been all meditation and calm. Almost all of the really dramatic, pivotal moments of my life have taken place in these two months. Some of them, like the death of my father, were beyond my control. A few were the result of stupidity on my part, and a couple of very vivid episodes were of my own making; some unconscious, some perhaps not so much. While they played out, these dramatic moments carved me into the man I am today every bit as much as the moments of quietude.


Even as a global pandemic is ravaging lives and bringing misery to hundreds of millions, I give thanks for those flickers of good news that may ultimately come to nothing but, like daffodils, remind me that there are still good things ahead. No matter what else happens, there will always be good things ahead. fold up the scarves and mittens. And I settle down to the serious cultivation, development and polishing of the ideas I’ve been hatching since Labor Day.


Even as a global pandemic is ravaging lives and bringing misery to hundreds of millions, I give thanks for those flickers of good news that may ultimately come to nothing but like daffodils remind me that there are still good things ahead. No matter what else happens, there will always be good things ahead.


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