I woke up eager to get to my computer, eager to start working. Lord, how I will miss this if I have to go back into an office full time. I have been editing for a new online publishing venture and I love it. I adore the writers I am working with, and feel so honored to be trusted with their words, they are such artists, so passionate about their craft. If only this venture could make me a full enough living, I would do nothing else. I am so in the flow when I am doing this work, so humbled and inspired, I have no doubt whatsoever that this is what I am meant to do.
Of course, I can be meant to do this, and other things, too. Like that job I applied for recently, about which I have heard nothing in response so far. I am still in a place where I can tell myself that if I am meant to get that job, and do work that relates to social justice (a dearly held principle of mine, as dearly held perhaps as working from home), then I will get it. If I am not meant to do that, then the universe will frustrate my efforts. I do think, however, that my husband and I are meant to pay my daughter's college tuition. So there is that.
I am also writing again, my own work, and I had forgotten this totally electric alive feeling, the brain noise gone, and in its place a dance of sentences, testing their rhythms, testing their truth, getting closer to realizing the possibilities of the work on every draft. Jamaica gave me this. Being there last week unlocked something in me, a sense of who I used to be. It reminded me of my history, the dreams I once had. I took them out again, those neglected dreams, dusted them off, held them up to the light, and whoa! they still sparkled.
So yes, I am writing again. It is better than drugs. I feel internally occupied when I write, more excited than at peace, and somehow full to the brim. I had forgotten.
I love my life.