Today, instead of teaching, I stayed home. I'm in pain from my still-unexplained symptoms, and I'm lightheaded and cranky and very easily distractable.
At one point I sat down to finish beading a hair ornament C. is to take with her this weekend, and I fell in. The neighborhood is quiet, the house is cool, the dogs are sleeping. I sat in my ragged flowered armchair, tray balanced on the wide arm, and methodically strung beads and tied things off. I was still in pain but I wasn't anxious or overwrought or frantic or any of the other things I tend to be.
In many small ways, the universe keeps reminding me that the Writing Plan, which despite its name includes beading (and painting, and sewing, and singing, and many other Arts), is what I'm being led to. I've turned away from it too many times now, and the universe isn't taking no for an answer. Step by step it's seducing me into it.
Thank heavens.
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