In a year of being home and listening to myself, I have just entered month three.
February was for.... lots of things. Some writing, yes. And more staying still, more creating routines. More discovery. It's hard to put into words. I didn't know making the decision to stay home this year was going to bring me feelings this... deep. I don't know when I'll write about writing again. I'm sorry if you've landed here to read something about writing... or the writing process. I don't know what that is right now. Everything seems up for grabs, but well-grounded at the same time, if that makes sense.
I've enjoyed this house when I've been home, that's for sure. Now I want to *know* it. I've been steeping myself in this being-home thing -- I don't have a choice, really. It's just what's happening now, and I am glad.
I looked up the other day from my perch at the kitchen island, where I'd surrounded myself with cookbooks, and said, "This reminds me so much of my life long years ago, when I had time for everything. There was time for cooking, gardening, friends, family, taking good care of myself, and writing as well... what's that word, Debbie? Balance. There was balance."
January was for study and putting beginning systems into place. In February, rhythms began to emerge, and I followed my nose. I listened. I took my time. I slowed down.
I have dropped 25 pounds since Thanksgiving as well. For such a long time I haven't recognized the woman smiling back in all those pictures of me. I surely did morph and change on the road. I forgot who I was. Or maybe I just missed myself too much.
In any case, it is a delight to welcome me back to myself.