Today marks two weeks of what I'm dubbing "living alone for the first time in my life." That's extreme wording for what is a temporary situation, but this is a two month jaunt of aloneness, so hey. It qualifies.
I had such big plans. Beginning on day one I was going to rise with the sun. Read, write, coffee, every single morning before work. Work hard and well at actual work, then come home and make myself a healthy and affordable dinner, play with my puppy, and then read, write, dessert. I was going to be scholarly and ambitious and serious and quiet. I was going to think deep thoughts.
What an a-hole. Christ.
These were all good, lofty intentions. But I forgot to account for my general exhaustion, which has been large and looming. This summer was one long, enormous ramp up for a hectic fall. Jobs have been quit, finances have been reorganized, parties parties parties have happened, plans have been made.
So, what did I do once the silence finally descended? I collapsed in on myself. (Predictably.) Sprawled out on the couch. Fucked around on ye olde internet. Watched reruns of Criminal Minds while eating handfuls of chocolate. (Matthew Gray Gubler, my nerd crush, continues to make me adore him.)
So of course I felt real shitty about all this, until I remembered, who the fuck cares? I'm allowed to sit and vegetate. What on earth is wrong with taking a week or so to be a lump, a loaf, deeply lazy? Nada.
And sure enough, post-resting, this week has been different. I've already finished two books this month and have four more to go, so I stopped at my favorite bookstore in the village and treated myself to a few lovely new titles. And over the past few days, I've been sliding down into the head space I have been so craving. That place where everything goes quiet and soft around me, but on the inside I feel electric and zippy with thoughts and with words.
Balance. It's so key, so elemental. I admire people who can function with ease in a chaotic life, but I'm just not one of them. I can handle it when times get crazy; I can function and squeak on by. But in order to feel correct, I require balance. And balance is different for everyone, but to me, its simple things: quiet. reading. music. running. sunlight. fresh air. a good friend to laugh with. yummy things. sleep.
Today was perfect. A good day at work, lunch out with friends. An after-work four mile run in the cool wind and the warm, thin September sun. A snacky dinner of pita, hunks of cheese, and a tomato and cucumber salad. And now, time at my desk. The candle next to me is "gingergrass and lemon" scented. A hot cup of chai tea to my left, a small bowl of graham crackers and chocolates to my right. My dog, asleep in her bed on the bottom of the bookshelf, her soft snores my warmest company.
And, sure as anything, the urge to write comes back.
I know I need these things. Routine, and health, and quiet. And when I don't take the time to prioritize them, I lose my way, again and again. I'm not sure how to make a habit out of putting myself first, but certainly I'm a better person when I've done it.
As my mom sometimes says to me, an eye-roll in her voice, "Just go for your run. Maybe you'll be a nicer person when you get home."
Hm.
Two weeks down, six or so to go. Maybe by the end I'll actually be artistically productive. Or, at least, a nicer person. One can hope.
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