First thing Friday, I didn’t want to go.
I stood in the bathroom at 8:35 in the morning, already running late for work, holding my husband and thinking, for just one quick moment, that I didn’t want to leave. I could just come home after work, like normal. We could order a pizza and veg on the couch. A classic Friday night. I would miss him if I went.
But I’d promised myself that I was going to try to do something important, and it was just too hard to do it here, with daily distractions and laundry and so-routine-it-just-happens-chill-night.
So I finished packing my bag, assuring myself that I didn’t need more than one for a weekend. Did I even need a blowdryer? I wasn’t going to see anyone. Except myself.
By the time I’d gotten through the workday, was on the road, and had finally extricated myself from Atlanta traffic, I was feeling nervous. Had I really thought this through? A whole weekend in a cabin completely by myself. No one and nothing around to distract me. There was so much silence, so much space up in the North Carolina mountains. Quiet enough to hear my doubts echoing through the trees. The only question now was: would I listen to them?
Getting in and settling in made me feel a bit more at home. After all, I knew this place. Even if it was 50 degrees inside in January, I was going to set up and make myself comfortable. Eventually the thermostat would catch up. In the meantime… let’s dive into a distraction. Okay, so I said none, but I did bring my cell phone and a book. I can’t imagine going anywhere without those two things.
Saturday I slept until I wasn’t tired anymore – a rare gift. Even when I woke, I allowed myself to languish in bed, relaxing and just being at peace. I gazed out the massive wall of windows to the winter mountains beyond and knew that sleeping in the loft had been the right choice. As good as I felt, when I stood and walked to the railing, I saw my computer down on the kitchen table and remembered: this weekend, this was supposed to be a writer’s cabin. It was time for some writing.
By 12:06 AM on Sunday, I felt completely exhausted, but proud of myself. I’d written/edited 23 pages today, which is roughly tied with my personal record (20+). Still, there’s a part of me that’s looking at how much work there is left to do and recognizing that I didn’t quite meet my writing goal for the month (short by 12 pages). I’m trying to ignore that part. Who cares if I didn’t hit the goal or if the mountain still looms high above me? I did good work today, and I’m working really hard on giving myself credit for that. The only way to go is forward.