Today, right now, I’d be packing up the car; after church I’d be heading to the cottage-by-the-sea; in the afternoon I’d be walking the beach. But plans change; nothing stays the same. No resentment, no ‘poor me’. And yet, this morning I’m feeling a little disappointment. I love the solitude of consecutive days; I love the silence of no human or electronic sounds; I love the simplicity of routine and only a couple of bags of stuff.
Tomorrow, my first day at the cottage, was to be the day that I would return to writing my memoir. No excuse, I tell myself. It is time. I will walk across the street to the library, computer in hand, and I will write for two hours; I will do that five days out of seven. My determination is strong.
All the while I will hope that the owner of the cottage gets better—mainly for his sake, but also for mine.
Tomorrow, my first day at the cottage, was to be the day that I would return to writing my memoir. No excuse, I tell myself. It is time. I will walk across the street to the library, computer in hand, and I will write for two hours; I will do that five days out of seven. My determination is strong.
All the while I will hope that the owner of the cottage gets better—mainly for his sake, but also for mine.