I’ve worn the same sweatpants on and off for the past 3 days. This morning I pulled them on and thought, “Sign of life!” Which actually means, “The Zoloft is working.” Bless my beautiful brain and its well-worn OCD grooves. Wearing the same piece of clothing twice before washing is not something I’m prone to. Once it’s touched my body or the outside world - even for an hour - into the hamper it goes.
But I don’t know, here I am wearing the same gray sweats as I did yesterday morning before yoga and the night before while making dinner. Signs of life. Signs of changing course. Signs of relief.
I went to bed last night churning over a story I had started writing. I could feel it slipping away, dissolving, and very clearly telling me “Not yet.” I clung to its edges, knowing I could bring it to life in a way no one else would. I scanned my inner territory to see what could be used to salvage the beautiful world-building that had been emerging for weeks. But the story decomposed while I slept and I woke to a fresh field of nothing.
So I pulled on the same gray sweatpants, brewed my coffee, drove my daughter to school, and came home to sit in the quiet of my loft with a frustratingly clean slate. I still had half a cup of coffee, surprisingly still warm, and I had a book that arrived only yesterday. I have this habit of reading every morning until the last dregs of coffee are drained from my mug and it’s time to get to work. Reading is the inhale, I tell myself. Writing is the exhale. And Holly Ringland’s new book, The House That Joy Built was waiting where I had left it the night before, a red dirt and sea salt inhale.
The first chapter. The first chapter. While Holly was growing up in Australia writing stories that left an indent on her middle finger, I was growing up in the US writing stories that left an indent on my ring finger. While Holly was learning the terrain of her inner country, I was learning the terrain of my inner territory. While Holly was coming home to the house of Joy within her, I was coming home to the house of Soul within me. While Holly was being diagnosed with CPTSD, I was being diagnosed with PTSD. While Holly was in the desert, I was in the desert. But while Holly was returning to her first love of writing fiction, I was still leaving flowers at the grave of my own first love of writing fiction. And that is the part of Holly’s story that poured me a cup of tea and invited me to sit.
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