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We are such a nation of doers, it’s engrained in us to do, be productive. After moving here to our land by the creek, I tried repeatedly to find another job. Without a therapist to shore up my destroyed self-esteem, I couldn’t. I went to many interviews, but with the weight I had put on, my self-loathing about it seeped through. And perhaps a large part had more to do with the interviewer’s ideas of overweight people. Oh, I eventually found a few part-time jobs, but mostly my time was just that, mine. And after I got over it, I have lusciously enjoyed it.

So what am I supposed to do? Even after deciding that going back to work as a nurse just wasn’t going to happen,  and I’d come to terms with that because I no longer had the initiative or will to seek out another good therapist to help me accomplish certain goals, the question arose when I awoke each day, “What will I do? Why am I here?”

One thing I did was write a book. I took classes on writing, driving to the city once a week, a rather large excursion for a country girl like me. I began writing my first essay in the woods with a pen and notebook during our yearly camping trip. I took more classes encouraged by the feed-back I received, making new friends in the process. We would saunter down the city sidewalk to the quaint coffee-shop near-by where the menu is chalked daily on the blackboard.

Then I wrote the most horrendous stories from my childhood that I’d never told, and had burdened my shoulders as if carrying a life-long load of boulders. And with the writing, the tears, the coffee, and more tears, I kept writing.

In the spring, when I began to feel the lightness of just ‘being’, I started a writing group with two previous class-mates. We added an on-liner participant then one other. And each week we met for coffee and critique at the coffee shop on the canal. Another charming place with huge stuffed chairs and sofas. For two hours we read to each other our innermost secrets and emotions, learning that we could trust each other, a giant leap for me. I held nothing back, honing my stories through their feedback, always gentle, always kind. My stories became perfect. My book was ready.

But I wasn’t getting paid. I wasn’t out doing. I am free to do as I want. And with my mixed up brain, sometimes I start four things at once, even after 14 years of meditating. I’m still a bit on fast speed, or overwhelmed. Even here at home where I feel safest and happiest. But that’s ok.

The question I ask, “What’s the point?” Well, maybe it is ‘being.’ Being here, enjoying this one moment, when my hands wipe the suds off the pan, feeling the warmth of the water as the bright sun through the window over the sink murmurs ‘good morning.’ Maybe the point is to come back to the present as many times as I can throughout the day and feel what I feel and not run from it. Because it’s not so scary anymore. I can be here and enjoy the moment, and that’s a miracle!


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