Its time to settle down on the farm for the summer. At almost 9:30AM, I need to get busy working on the kitchen, cleaning the living room, etc… However I was reading a book by one of my favorite authors yesterday, and her words haunt me.
She complained about a writers group she had briefly joined. She was the only author of that group. The other writers were complaining about the muse hitting or other utter horse manure, and she kept thinking about what she does to write.
She talked about sitting down and writing until the word count is made. And I agree with that. Yet I haven’t been doing it. I’ve been distracted by cancer surgery and ER visits and by hospitalizations. I’ve been distracted by family drama and by working on this and that. By organizing two households etc…
I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been painting. I haven’t knit in a long time.
Sitting here on the farm, I want to cry, because I’ve mucked up ever so many things.
Yesterday, I took the Hubs back to Worthington, his “ONLY HOME” and I wanted to scream the whole way. I felt like vomiting, I felt the urge to crawl away.
I can’t do those things.
You see, my “ONLY HOME” is this farm.
I hate what he is doing, I’m terribly worried, but I can’t fight his depression, I can’t fight his anxiety, and I can’t fight his alcoholism or drug addiction.
I can only fight my own.
So, this morning, I’m sitting here, writing my word count on the blog, and praying that the Hubs is okay. Have a good afternoon, I’m going to be spending mine with soap suds and a Rosary.