I’m not writing meaningfully at all, I’ll write occasionally in my journal but it’s what I think of as “cheap” writing – more like a travel or daily log. It’s not deeply connected to my emotions and it certainly doesn’t create the catharsis that intentional, meaningful, connected, and vulnerable writing does for me. Dare I call it emotional constipation? 🙂

I’m also not knitting or crafting or creating in any way. I literally cannot recall the last time I held my needles in my hands and made any progress on my cardigan or socks that are in progress. Partly, it’s about not having anywhere comfortable to sit in my rather not-as-advertised long stay airbnb. Partly it’s about being as disconnected from myself as I am. Knitting is methodical. It’s now – it’s me in the now. And I think I’m not up for that.

I’m also not exercising. I miss my stationary bike – it’s in a pods container. Waiting for me. Which, let’s be real, is no excuse to not move my body. At minimum, I could be going on glorious seaside walks (however bitingly cold) daily or multiple times a day. Which would be really good for me but also great prep for my upcoming trip to Scotland.

But I’m also not being a chicken. I’m here. I moved across the country with no permanent forwarding address and no real promise of one. I had a birthday just a few days after I got here, and since I knew zero people other than my realtor (arguably don’t really know her either :)), I asked some locals I met out and about where to go for live music. And I really was intimidated to go by myself. But I did. I won’t say it’s the best outting I’ve ever had or the best birthday. But I felt courageous. I did the hard thing. The awkward thing. I didn’t chicken out. And I had a decent time. Bless east coast bars where hockey is just on TVs and I don’t have to beg someone to change one tiny tv to a game 🙂  The band was pretty good. The drinks were great. And I danced the tiniest bit. And every birthday should have dancing.

I’m not (mostly) wallowing in the startle of being here. Things weren’t as I expected at the place I’m staying and while I was exhausted the first few days, I did go out and find ingredients to start making lemonade. And that feels… better. Not good. Far from great. But better and manageable.

And I’m not regretting my decision to do all of this. I’ve looked at a few houses this week and one I loved but the lifestyle with it/near it was scary. So different from what I’ve known before. But if I let the fear go for a bit, it’s also a bit of excitement and wonder underneath all of that. I liked another house, but when I really examined it, it was because the neighborhood felt “safe” – not like crime I mean like – it felt so similar to the vibe of the neighborhood I left on the other side of the country. I could easily retreat into it and hermit with occasional neighbor stuff just like I was  before I moved. And that’s not what I’m here for. So I’m putting in an offer on the house in the new, what-feels-like-adventurous community instead. (Cross everything please. Odds are SO not in my favor that I’ll get that house but I keep trying to remember “why not me?”). The more i think on it, the more I can see me in that life and happy and growing. 

That’s all I really wanted. So for all of the things I’m not doing that I should be – that will help me mentally and physically feel better, I’m going to put aside the judgment stick and say – it’ll come. I’ll settle down a bit and it will come. Patience.