When the Body Stops the Writing
So far this month, I've been wallowing in my new nest. My mind has been consumed with hanging pictures and sticky hooks, assembling flatpack chairs, and cleaning the old dirt caked on by the previous owner of my new home. Any physical efforts have been hampered by a knee twanging case of tendonitis. I want to be charging through edits on my memoir, but it seems most of my energy is being burned up by the physical dimensions of my life: body, space, nest, nutrition, rest. Like the house of Dorothy, mine has spun through the air, flattening the wicked witch I had become at my previous home, leaving me feeling like Glinda the good witch is still alive and shining within me. It's hard to have a happy mind in an unhappy home. I've been in my new home for nine weeks, and I catch myself having a little giggle from time to time about my luck. My psych would say it wasn't luck but good choices. To help me manifest the right home I also maintained a five-year ritual of spell-cr