He's standing in the doorway, forehead wrinkled in simulated chagrin, eyes triangular, bottom lip thrust out in a pout. I look up from the computer, smiling at his play-acting. But maybe he's really hurt: "Are you okay?"
Apparently he walked off the top stop at the front walk, en route to driving E to the emergency room. She's my friend, and I should have been the one to take her; but I've been fighting a sore throat for a week now, and he wanted me to stay in my chair, swaddled in a quilt, resting.
"Oh sweetie, do you need anything?" Maybe a neck rub, he says. Reassured, I promise to come up in a few minutes, as soon as I finish what I'm doing.
What I'm doing is trying to start this blog. I'm fussing with templates, backgrounds, colors. I don't know what I want to post, just that I want to be doing something creative with my time. After a year of unemployment, I know that I need more creative structure in my life.
It's not that I have not been busy: I've been focussed on our fledgling bed and breakfast, on keeping the domestic front organized, on applying for jobs and updating my resumes. It's not that I have been lonely: I have reconnected with the friendships that used to sustain me, pre-Dave. My dog and cat are snuggly (especially now that the weather has turned cold), and D continues to love me. In point of fact, it's not that my life lacks structure: I have rehearsal Monday night, Lnet Tuesday morning, fiddling Wednesday night, scrabble Thursday night, yoga Friday morning, training walks on Wed/Friday mornings, assorted classes in meditation, Tai Chi Chuh, water aerobics.
So what is it? It's that all this activity doesn't add up to anything, at least not anything I can put a name to. Hence, this blog. I want to take a few minutes every day to do some addition. Maybe even some multiplication: what do you get when you take 3 drawings and multiply them by 3 haiku?
But first, I need to find a way to deal with the (literal) bumps in the road. It's so easy to be distracted by life's constant crises, like a beloved husband, lying in bed with bruised extremities and a recent dose of vicodin. Surely it's more important to nurse a human than a putative creativity.
Maybe I can do both. (Okay cat, get off my lap.)
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