megdanielle

The morning sky threatens with a coming storm, the morning light losing its push against dark clouds. There’s rain on the forecast. It’s a rare Friday off of work – Good Friday – and the kids are at school until I pick them up for a noon church service; Fred will meet us there.

I worked 4 days a week for years. Those years were born in incredible stress but that fourth day? It was healing. Today I find myself fighting the dull ache of that loss, desperate to enjoy the few hours of solitude I have.

With such a short amount of time, I decide to shirk the growing list of things to do (clean the house, shop for Easter baskets, prepare for hosting Easter Sunday, Spring clean, etc.). I instead opt for a corner booth in Starbucks where I balance my dirty chai latte and breakfast sandwich on a narrow round table along with my computer, determined to return to a past that’s been ignored: writing.

I used to do this often. Find a coffee shop. Open my laptop. Write for an hour. As the years fly by, it’s become much more difficult to find the mental space. When I have the time, the words evade me. I trip over words a lot these days, slogging through a fog that could be a symptom of too little sleep, depression, distraction, or even perimenopause.

Today, words stutter over the page as the chatter around me intensifies and the music blares, several turns too loud. Even so, this feels good. This is enough.