There is a thin line of light beginning to cap the mountain range in the distance. The world beneath me is frozen, and silent. The only sound comes from my husbands podcast in the other room. A voice distinct to a comedian floats through the bedroom and into the library. Their sarcasm tightens the air of the house, building to a breaking point of humor. Tension, release, tension and release.
My eyes scan the space before me, adding up the tasks left to finish the renovation and begin yet another new chapter together. A yellowed smoke alarm sits alongside a wider, whiter, carbon monoxide detector. It is one eye sore I can bear no longer. I add "new smoke detectors " to our working punch list. And slump back into my chair.
I promised myself I would begin writing weekly. Working a muscle of expression that I have long desired to flex and grow. This morning I battle with the desire to show up with a flushed out plan, an intention for the words I will share. The desire to offer a strike of brilliance or a moment of insight for whoever takes time to read this. Yet I know, that does not work the muscle. That is the cause of writing atrophy. Expectations strangle and catch the words in their trap.
I will write what flows forward - I will write about what I see and feel, and sense. It will be for me, for that is what I believe allows connection to you dear reader. Authenticity. I show up for the little writer within who wants to be heard. I will not crush her confidence or self esteem by saying her words are not good enough. For now I will simply let her speak.
Unblocked and moving freely like the wind, the writer sits cross legged , leaning toward the screen. My chest opens a tiny bit more, a sense of awe is just on the brink of rising. This is the tempo of the writer. This is the feeling I long for, the familiarity of expression. How can something that feels so distinctly right be the wrong path?
The sun has just made its daily climb over the mountain. My hands are cast in golden light as they strike the keys. My shadow now reflected to the left of me begs to be captured. I pause open my camera and freeze this moment in time. These morning moments have collectively re written the way I live my life. Prior to moving to the mountains my days were started with a frazzled mix of garbage men, and neighbors stomping through their apartment above us.
My memory tugs me back to my first morning here on the mountain. The only box unpacked was the box with my kettle and french press. Priorities people. I rose early, earlier than Mike and our two friends who helped us move the day before. Waking with excitement I made my coffee - poured it in a travel mug, and burst outside. I took a slow, deliberate gulp of the cool mountain air. My frayed nervous system began to relax. My shoulders began to release the 9 months of tension piled on from a pandemic and the house buying process. It is these moments of beginnings that I live for. The precipice of something new, after something accomplished.
That morning I watched the valley fill with a mythical mist. The sun played with fog and created a veiled welcome. Crows cawed, and blue jays flew from one lush pine to the next. It was exactly the medicine I needed. This place has been a cocoon. I consider my stress levels at an all time low. I have met wonderful people. I have found consistent self care practices. I am showing up in ways I was never able to in city life. Yet time begs us to return. I know that eventually we will need to re enter a city society. My partner longs for it- he is a being of energetic chaos. It suits him perfectly.
This knowing leaves me filled with questions. Can we have both worlds? Can anyone really straddle two worlds successfully? Most importantly, what do we want life to look like?
My mind is a crawling mist, I search for the bright rays of illumination to cut through the fog. I yearn for clarity. Instead, I take a lesson from nature to comfort my spirit. You can not force the fog from the mountain, you can only wait and watch it rise.
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