So, I gave up men for money (easy choice, really). And now I’ve given up writing for exercise. I don’t even know myself anymore. I’m walking and doing yoga and mowing and trying to fit in some hand weights and other things when I have the time and that’s time I used to spend writing. I felt guilty about that for a long time. Writing’s what I do, it’s what I am. If I’m not doing that, what am I exactly? I still write first thing in the morning but it’s garbage writing. It’s blah blah blah for 10 minutes. It’s not productive it’s just process. It’s visiting the therapist for 10 minutes every morning in my robe with a cup of coffee and it’s the best 10 minutes of almost the whole day except for the part when I get to come home and change into comfortable clothes and say hi to my kids and make dinner while they work on homework or fiddle with devices behind closed doors.
I still think about writing. I still think about my novel. I’m just not writing it. If I win the grant then I guess I’ll get back to it. But right now I need to get in better shape. And there’s only time for one of those things – exercise or writing. So, right now, I’m spending lunch hours walking a mile or two with my girly pink hand weights. I’m outside under the blue sky with the trees shushing above me. I’m running into snakes and frogs and turtles. I saved a turtle at work on Saturday. I turned into the parking lot and a big old box turtle was loping across the road. I stopped and helped him get across safely. Later, when I was out looking for trash, I tried to find him again, to make sure he’d hidden himself away, and I couldn’t find him. So I guess he did. Lucky for him the park was pretty much dead all day so he picked a good time to be out.
The garden is coming along though things aren’t really liking the soil in the reconfigured bed. No lettuce to speak of. A couple possible radishes. But whatever. The flowers are sprouting and a couple snow peas are popping up. Carrots are beginning to sprout and the potatoes are super happy. I planted bush beans and cucumbers and more flowers on Sunday. I bought tomato and pepper plants today. They’ll go in tomorrow. I’m reclaiming the front bed. Stuff’s happening. I’m busy. I’m so busy, I finally downloaded a month’s worth of photos and should have some Roadside Virginiana posts ready soon. I’m finally okay with the fact that I can only do one thing at a time. I can’t do everything all the time. It’s been hard to convince myself that this is okay. It’s okay. I’ll get back to the writing when I get back to it. I’m still a writer if I’m not writing. I’m a writer on hiatus. I’m busy getting in 5,000 steps most days. I’m busy doing yoga with Red. I’m busy mowing. I’m busy working two jobs. I’m busy in the garden. I’m busy taking photographs of things. I’m busy enjoying the warm weather and having the windows open and hearing the insects trill and buzz. I’m busy planning a trip to NYC with my kids. I’m busy paying down debt. And fixing broken things in the house. And sleeping. Sleeping is under rated. Sleeping, when you can get it (and often I can’t), is pretty much the best thing ever. When I’m dead, I think I’ll miss sleeping the most. Or, at least, it’ll be in the top ten things I’ll be sorry not to be able to do any more.
So for now, I’m this. Later, I’ll be that. Eventually, I’ll get back to the crafty art things I was doing in the fall and the story that’s sitting in suspended animation in my laptop. To everything, there is a season. Right now, it’s the season of getting outside and walking around in it and not having to wear a coat and watch the pedometer burst into confetti when I reach my tiny goal. I like confetti, especially when I don’t have to vacuum it up later.