The fog has come in. And I am ok. I know which direction the sun will rise and I know how to find my North.
I like the softness of fog. How it can ease you into a day.
I am sipping my first french press since leaving Kansas. I like the routine of it. The aloneness of it. I appreciate the not getting dressed part, the staying in pajamas part. I am somewhat entrenched–voluntarily climbing in–in this routine. Coffee. And writing. Slow beginning.
Yes, there are days that are utterly frustrating. Plenty of days where the words stay in my head and I have to pull and shake to get them down on the page. A few days that sit blank as if they can choose a Sabbath of words.
Worry can come before the first cup and stay long after I have abandoned the pen. I would like to declare there is a good worry, like scientists have declared there is good stress.
This quivering doubt that wants to be wonder when it grows up was birthed when the one month anniversary of no pay check arrived. An event that was planned. Well, it was not particularly charted out and waited for, but a rather inevitable prediction.
Month marker two is peeking out and around the corner from next week. I have had hints of an island out in the sea. I want to believe I already know the specific strokes that are best to use when swimming in such a place. Want to believe I have the energy to get there. Though, I confess at time, both fuel and funds seem undernourished.
Can I confess?
This trench living, hunkering down to write has left me with no words. When the words did come, they begged for a file in a box in a closet behind a door at the end of a hallway. I have had to do a lot of not thinking about this blog–about the abandoning of posts. Of setting aside the what if I don’t do this or what if it is time to be done?
This was not media overload. It was not even the usual trek home that forces an unplug as I arrive in the rural Midwest. I had to learn to shush. If not with my mouth, then most especially with my mind.
You didn’t need to know that. However, since no logical conclusion to this post was coming, I figured I needed to remove the block to the ending. So a confessional posing as an ending it is. (In other words, the confession did not free the block in my writing out about what is next, of how to move on or through this.)
Finally, I promise to return soon to tell you all about my weekend. There were bus transfers and antics. Possibly even another confession–one that involves thorns, drunkards and blue jeans.