I want to tell you

I've been thinking a lot about writing, but haven't figured out what I want to write. For the first time in a while, the problem is reversed: it's not that I have nothing to write, it's that I have so much to write and don't know what I want to write first. So instead of diving in, I haven't written anything.
Eventually I want to write about religion...or lack of it. I want to write about creating a home that isn't the home you'd planned, and I want to write about why the fuck pandora plays so many versions of "hallelujah". There ARE other songs out there, you know!
But for real, there's so much I want to write. I want to tell you about the mini plants on my windowsill, about how only the ones in the waterbottles, the makeshift pots, grew. Not the ones that were supposed to grow in their little clay pots. I want to compare that to life. I want to tell you about what it feels like to carry the cage with the rabbit in it down three flights of steps, stick her in the truck with me and feed her slices of banana on the four hour drive home. I'd make that about love. About longing. And about how wonderful tasty fruit is. I want to tell you about my desire to do art. I don't want to say too much on that front yet...not until I do something worth telling about. Right now, it's just a desire for creativity.

My little suitcase is packed, sitting on the floor in my bedroom, with all I'll need for three weeks inside a bag that's not supposed to carry more than for a weekend trip. I pack light. I hope it's nice enough outside to read outside, to spread a blanket in the bed of the truck and call the cat up with me and let her snuggle my feet to keep them warm. I want to paint for you a picture of a charmed existence, of open fields and country bars and a cold house with a warm body pressed close to you at night. I want to show you what it feels like to drive down a dirt road, windows down, Vivaldi blaring, the rabbit's ears moving in rhythm to the cellos. Headed home.