I coach my author clients to sit for as long as it takes to get words on a page. This morning, my resistance is robust. I am pulled to zone out. I don’t want to write. Tired of saying the same things in different ways, I worry you are tired too. I indulged in a very large peanut butter cookie last night (I know, alert the press!) and have a sugar hangover. Fuzzy headed, my thoughts are sludge. I misplaced my reading glasses so I squint and barely make out the screen. Yet, still I sit. I remember my darkest day yet was the day I chose not write... I don’t want to go there again. Writing has become my way of greeting the day, of processing what needs to be processed. Yes, I may be saying similar things. My brain is still attempting to make sense of the nonsensical. It is still processing the trauma. And, as the numbness wears off the jagged reality emerges. There is no going back. This is my new life. Who would have thunk it?
Yesterday, I watched the last of the metal scraps that once were my house be towed away. As the flatbed flexed to pick up the load, I caught a final glimpse before it disappeared from view. Pieces of my house, pieces of my life, memories turned into heaps of metal tumbled together then vanished down the road on their journey to recycling.
28 April, 2012 / 10 Comments