I spent the last few days confined to my bedroom, in bed, in close proximity to the bathroom. This morning as the sun relieved the moon of his shift, and danced through the windows beckoning me to join her, my mind whispered to my body, Are you back from the dead? A year has slipped into the archives, and a new one is waiting for your footprint. Are you ready?
I didn’t know if I was or could, but I had to try. I swung my limbs over the edge of the bed and placed my feet on the floor. The tile, cold on contact, sent a shiver racing through my body. It took the length of its journey for me to realize I wasn’t dizzy and didn’t have the urge to sink back into bed and burrow under the covers. While I wasn’t ready to tackle the world outside of my bedroom, I was ready to do what I hadn’t done, had yearned to do while curled up in a ball cursing the nasty germ that had invaded my body, which was to write.
Shaky but no longer horizontal I walked across the room, picked up my Mac, and carried it back to my bed. My stomach no longer ached, the fog in my head was lifting, and those ideas I had dreamt about were hovering within my reach. I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders but I needed to dip my big toe into the New Year. Hitting the power button and hearing the momentary legato bell sound, as the machine came to life, was all the tonic I needed to bring me back from the other side.
I haven’t gone a day without writing in as long as I can remember. My mind slower than usual, my fingers, clumsy, and jittery at the same time, as if they didn’t remember what to do, felt the pressure mounting. I worried how it would feel opening a blank document. Would my fingers remember their role in the process? Would my trapped thoughts flow with ease or would I have to push and pull them until they filled the pages? Would the insight into my newest heroine, Celia, be right where I found it the last time I had written? Could I make her come to life? In my mind I had seen what I had done wrong, but could I transfer those changes to the page? Two days isn’t long, but still I had some doubts.
I wasn’t worried about the unwashed laundry, the layer of dust on the pine tables, the washed but not put away dishes, or even the unopened emails. Nope. All that mattered was reconnecting to the page. I opened a document and gave way to the Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way, of writing, the morning pages. Just write without thinking for a defined time limit.I wrote for an hour. It reminded me of practicing my piano scales. There were sour notes, missed keys, and some fumbling as my fingers raced to keep time with the thoughts pouring out of my head. My mind eager, pushed. My fingers had no choice but to keep up. At the end of an hour, my body tired from the exertion, but strengthened because of the effort, felt almost whole.
I reread the notes I had typed, cut and pasted them into different documents – for future use – left the computer on my unmade bed and went to the kitchen to brew a pot of ginger tea. As the tea leaves steeped the pungent aroma of the ginger cleared the rest of my head, relief washed through my body. I felt better knowing I had come through the worse. I was on the mend physically and had stepped into 2013, a bit wobbly, but I left a footprint. I filled a mug, sipped, and felt the heat of the ginger tea race back down the same track the shiver had come up earlier.
I ambled back to my room with renewed awareness. I am lucky or blessed, maybe both, to have found my place in this world. I don’t look back over my life with regret. I take each day as it comes. I more that enjoy my life and the passion I have for writing. Whatever dreams may come tomorrow, I know I’m ready to make my footprint.