Well, I’m still not writing daily. I am reading, and I have been visited with constant dreams of moving to some new place to live. What does this mean? I believe they are a not-unconscious desire to leave all my crap and start over: Forget cleaning up my messes, forget being responsible, just magically start fresh somewhere else that is more attractive to me, someplace not cluttered with memories and unfinished business.
And in these new rooms, there are always hardwood floors, plants, beautiful live green plants, twigs and beautiful pots, lots of light, sparse furnishing. Nothing new, but nothing tattered either. The rooms are earthy with natural elements like wood floors, linen curtains, natural wood furniture, or the rooms are lofty spaces, cream and soft white walls and blues in the sheets like slices of sky I can see from the window; rooms like you’d imagine in a summer home on the east coast. These rooms are always peaceful, quiet, inviting.
Not too many years ago, I lived in spaces almost like these. There was clutter though tucked away. There were duties neglected or put off, but I also had a garden, there were lofty blue hues I’d tuck into when I wanted to shut the world out and there was peace, a quiet I’d create for myself with a cup in my hand and only my thoughts for company and the early blue-black morning greeting me. I think it’s time to recreate these spaces.
I can’t afford to move. Besides, what I need is within. In the few moments I’ve taken to dwell on these images, something's stirred. I’m ready. I am what I need.