Almost every book I read has some kind of suggestion about writing every day. Writing sometimes, or simply sitting down to do the work you are supposed to, whether or not it be writing, is the nudge I feel. So I am here today on a black metal folding chair, in the nook below a bunkbed, just click clicking away to let you know my brain is still alive.
We are looking at houses and we are looking at land. The sun has come out again and it seems like spring is at hand. A little pink or a little brown on my nose is something I crave. I need the sun warmth that goes deep under my skin, and winter without it is a drain. I wish I had it more of the year, but since I think we've settled here as our home I need to find ways to just soak it up when I can.
2 sunny destination trips per winter
1 hour in the sun each day it is shining (daily walks make this convenient)
My soul was deeply in pain the last couple of weeks. Today seems like a lift, but raising teenagers and being occupation-confused and just plain normally sick and tired all seemed to push down their weight. My mental answer to myself in the past was, we just need to get to the next step, the next stage, the move...and here we are finally settled, so I'm in a place where I must actually focus on the life I have, not the life to come. I am grateful for this because it seems to be a more grown up stance to inhabit. It's just a little scary and slow.