I went away for the summer. Although I didn’t leave home, I was gone. I wrote (no blog posts), I read, I swam, I sunned. I drank summer ale, and I ate the garden’s rainbow. And sleep, there was lots of sleep.
In September, to jostle myself awake, I attended Poets On The Coast, a writing retreat for women held in Nye Beach, Oregon at the historic Sylvia Beach Hotel. The workshops kickstarted my words the year before, helping me to carve out a prolific year of writing.
Fall is here with its carpet of leaves and scarf of fog. Summer is packed in a storage unit.
I am stacked to the rafters with writing projects, mentoring, teaching, and po-coaching. My full plate is now a tray. I grieve the meetings, readings, lunches, and friends I am unable to fit in.
In the past, I always feared the other shoe would drop and someone would twirl around on a mountain peak and in their best Julie Andrews voice proclaim, “The hills are alive, but Patty is a fake.”
Call it a miracle, but the fear is beginning to fade. Confidence is a potato plant. It flourishes above ground, but what sustains me are those hidden spuds – the ones I have to dig for.
Summer taught me to pen in a day of hibernation on the calendar for every day of crazy busy. It seems to be working. I didn’t miss the blog during those morning swims or evening ales on the porch, but I’m willing to post on a regular basis again (between naps.)