It's Just a Fluke

There was a big wind storm here yesterday, although nowhere near as apocolyptic as the local news suggested. The front door blew open once, there were sundry creaking noises and the lid flew off the garbage can. But that was about it. Today has dawned freakishly calm. There is a shining orb in the sky that portends I know not what and the sky is an eerie shade of blue. These are strange signs in a land of wet and mud and grey and I do not understand them. But I found myself drawn to sit outside on the kitchen steps, drinking very hot coffee and marveling at the calm and warmth. It was almost like spring.

As I sat there, contemplating the weeds in the potagers, I realized that last week, and much of the week that preceeded it, was very busy just because it was. The busyness I've been wrapped up in, which has stressed me out, is not really the true pattern of my life. It was stressful, in fact, because it challenged the Routine of my days. I am used to having large chunks of time in my day to accomplish my agenda, to be alone, to think (or not). Last week I only had little bits stuck inbetween the much larger call of a crammed full schedule. It was the rushing around, the lack of time to focus that made me so crazy. Sheesh, I think we only even ate at the table once last week, which is very, very weird for us.

I spent a lot of time yesterday just doing as I pleased and it was odd to find so much silence while the weather was running amok outside but I suppose that's an important metaphor. When craziness swirls around me I have a choice. I can get sucked into it and allow it to blow me off course or I can trim my sails and use it to my good. Or something like that.

There is a writing project that I hope to contribute to and the deadline for submissions was Feb. 7. I realized that part of my stress last week was that I didn't have the time to write that I had counted on and I was way behind in shaping the pieces I have. I went to the website to check some details and saw that the deadline has been moved to the 15th. I can't tell you how relieved I was. I don't' have to "cram" tomorrow to finish up. I can still attempt to do my best work. And that is when I had my revelation.

I really am a writer now. Not because I talk or dream about it but because I'm finally doing it. And when I don't do it, or don't do that much of it, I start to feel wonky. It's what I'm supposed to be doing, as much as I'm supposed to be loving The Spouse and caring for The Child. It's my call and when one fails to heed the call there is dis-ease. In the years and years when I wasn't writing I didn't feel stressed about not writing because I hadn't owned it. It wasn't a daily requirement for happiness. Now, I realize, it is.

Ok, that orb thing in the sky is really bugging me. It's casting heated light on my computer screen, reavealing quite a lot of dust. What's that all about?