Sacred Spring Space

Sisters, I am celebrating! I moved stuff around and cleaned the garage, and ended up with a private sleeping, reading, and writing sanctuary. My best bed, at a perfect height, tucked into mattress-walled walls. Canopies to follow in this nap-pit! There will be bugs. It can be light or dark, quiet or a sound-chamber for the Honda to offer up Hozier. It’s in the garage, sharing air with the lawn machines and tools, intimate art (Daddy’s bad murals, Annelise’s sweet herons, and a political sign, Will Work for Peace.)

I’m so happy. Don’t mind a bug or two here or there. Small price to pay for living almost outdoors. Explained several times to the exploring huge bumblebee the other day that she should not think of settling inside this building.  I’d rather have a writing train of thought interrupted by a bee than the TV.   For much of my life, finding spaces free of television background sound has been one of the biggest challenges to my writing life.   So, that part of the garage-bed is bliss. Among others. The dark. The privacy. The coolness. Music.

the creature that sleeps in my garage!

the creature that sleeps in my garage!

So I’m happy in some primal way. Spring and strawberry blossoms again. With all my writing and reading friends, I am finally, wholly and humbly, feeling fulfilled in the sense of believing that enough people understand and appreciate my writing, and that it is somehow bigger than myself. Which is a great feeling, except there is still a scary ridge for me. What is private/public? Now that makes a girl think, and pull inside the shell a bit!

But, I’m happy in here, pondering things, novel-writing, organizing my tribe. My precious client hours are few and heart-touched.   I serve boards and committees, for the co-op and the Quakers; I’m a seasoned jester always ready to make lists and throw phrases around. Thinking, talking, evolving, growing community. Happy.

Travels lined up, more easy scenic trips and heart-bound visits, like the one I took in March. Not leaving my state, which I know so well, but going to some of its edges. Camp-out retreats along the way. One, by sheer blessing, very near one of the locations I chose to put in the Nessa Allen novel this time around.   I’m thrilled about doing some not-google-map road research!

Within this bubble of public cheer, I admit to some private fear. I can see the shape of my weeks and months for the whole year to come. The adventurer in me feels bound. I try to set limits, time-wise, forward, how long can I stand the routines? Don’t complain of boredom: be careful what you pray for. I schedule escapes into other routines, other services.   Even the sacred times must be assigned a number. This grates my spirit.

But, I escape a little bit, every day, blessed and obsessed with Hozier’s music. Comes from the goddess. Mmm… remembering great sex with musicians… complex rhythms… supple fingers… too private? But so true, sacred to the core, my spring garage happiness.


Comments

Sacred Spring Space — 1 Comment

  1. Happy Spring! Coming up on the second anniversary of my mom’s death in springtime, this year feels like healing and joy restored. She is in my heart, and the “Mom” who lives in my heart loves the spring: the bulbs coming up, the greenness of the trees, and especially all the little twittering wonderful world of birds seeking mates and nesting. With climate change looming in the background, I turn toward the ever-present “Moment that Is,” revel in it, love it.

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