Room to breathe

sunset


October sucked me dry. It's usually my favorite month of the year. And this year, it left me feeling hollow. Disconnected. Tired.

After my last post, Mark left a really cool comment:

In life there are times what we are doing is not working and we should give up the fight temporarily and regroup to try again.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend celebrated her 40th birthday. She and her husband rented the most spectacular beach house I have ever entered. When I arrived on Friday evening, I had just driven back into town after spending the day at a writer's conference two hours away. I was running on four hours sleep. The group was at a nearby restaurant watching the sunset, and I was alone. Music played softly in the background, accompanying the photo montage—scenes from decades of life and friendship—on the big screen TV.

I needed to freshen up before I walked over to the bar, and I had to pump breast milk. Too much information, I'm sure. But there it is. I felt rushed, wanting to hurry and get myself together so I could meet everyone before the sun went down. Instead, I told myself to stop. Breathe. My friends weren't going anywhere.

The sun was setting. And the setting sun doesn't wait. It moves slowly, steadily out of sight.

I walked out to the back porch and plunked down in a rocking chair. I felt my brain, my chest, my emotions—everything that had been so tightly constricted—release. Expand.

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This morning I held my coffee cup and looked out my kitchen window. I noticed how nice it is to have a window above the sink. I don't want to live a life of not noticing.

It's difficult to pick up where I left off. And yet, I'm here. Digging around for words. It's time to return to the well. To fill up. To breathe.

Begin again.