I should start by explaining myself.
You already know the explanation, but I’ll give it to you anyway.
You see, life happened.
There.
That wasn’t so hard. You understand. You’re thinking about all the times you started a thing and didn’t finish it. Or all the daydreams that never come true. The goals you can’t seem to keep a hold of. You’re wondering why.
Me too.
The nice part of being home bound is pace. The slowing of the pace. It’s taken 42 days for me to slow down enough to write. 42 days. There’s got to be some formula I could apply that would help me figure out how fast I must have been going before. The amount of time it took to slow multiplied by my mass? Opportunity divided by distraction equals avoidance?
To be fair, there were other factors. Namely my two young children suddenly at home all day with my partner and I.
Damn. I promised myself I wouldn’t use them as an excuse, and yet…
I was moving pretty fast before. My sails were full of the best kind of wind. Purpose. The bow of my boat ripped through the waves, splitting the water, leaving a white trail of salty foam. My eyes fixed on the new horizon.
But now, with the lack of wind, I’m left dangling my feet over the side for 42 days waiting for a breeze. A gust. Anything. Worrying that the anchor dropped and that I won’t be able to haul it aboard.
It’s been 42 days since I started working from home again. With little work to actually do. During that time I’ve planted a 600 square foot garden, baked 4 loaves of bread, cooked approximately 105 meals from scratch, done 4 dozen loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher 84 times. I’ve run over 50 miles, walked over 30. I’ve been on my bike for more than 20 hours. And I’ve written zero words.
Zero.
Until now.
I’ve been through the self-flagellation of why many times before. Hell, you’ve been through it with me so I won’t drag you through it again. The point is, we’re here now. I’m here now. I spent 42 days gazing down at the water waiting for something to move me. Instead of moving myself.
Turns out, swimming in the water is much better than staring at it. And once my eyes adjust to the sting of the salt I can suddenly see the other boat. An old one. A small, familiar one, with faded paddles. It bobs quietly in the waves, beckoning.
Charly Slipp 