The first week of my holidays was all about rest. I was allowed to read and not much else. I needed the rest and I’m good at it for a day or two, especially when I’m very tired, but the moment I feel better, I’m becoming restless. Or maybe the better word here would be uneasy, with doing nothing, with just sitting there and reading, while I could be doing so many productive things. And it doesn’t matter if I’m at home or away. This feeling always shows up. So this time, with some help from my husband, I forced myself to rest. I wasn’t even allowed to write, only to make some notes when an idea struck me. But no extended writing was allowed, no time spent in my room in the attic.
I was spending my days sitting in the garden, reading, looking out into the field behind our house, watching Alice sleep in the flower bed and going for some walks. It was what I needed after a few months of doing things I didn’t feel good about. And my mind was pleased with this rest too. In this week I had so many great thoughts and ideas, some preserved in my notebook, some (most of them) lost forever (Will I ever learn to write everything down?).
And now I’m in the second, and final, week of my holidays and I’m easing back into a daily rhythm, which proves more difficult than expected. I’m back in my room, sitting at my desk and nothing happens. The ideas, the thoughts that were crowding my mind last week don’t want to come. My mind is empty and feels heavy at the same time. Why is it so difficult?
And I know that the only way to let the water flow is to open the tap. I need to keep going, keep coming up here, stare at the page, write the few words that are present and wait for it to get better. The routine, the daily practice, the time spent in this room of mine, it will all add up, I know it will. It’s just that in my holiday silliness I was hoping that it all would be easier now.