For the past days I’ve flown across the world, I’ve hugged so many people that I love and danced into the night with new friends. I walked barefoot in the granite gravel of New Hampshire and the volcanic rock of Mt. Vesuvius. My head swirled with languages and accents and emotions and I felt so grounded yet so far from the earth – like I didn’t really even have time to land anywhere, to catch my breath, rest my wings, dig my feet deeper into the soil under my soles.
I missed this computer. I missed my bed. I missed my nightly routine in a place I belonged – not belong in the deep sense. In that case, I belong to a lot of places I’ve been to recently – minus the volcano – no one should really belong there, but that’s another blog. Belonged in the sense of the place where every day happens. Where I don’t live out of a suitcase and I have to take out the trash. I missed belonging to this routine of writing – even on the computer – which may be a pleasant side effect of this project, my loathe for typing instead of writing.
Awhile back one of my friends asked me if I’d keep this blog going after the 365 day project was up. I’ll keep it going, but the posts won’t be as frequent. Though seeing how these few weeks went without routinely being at my computer to write, I know that the real goal of the project is working. I started this originally because I needed to write, but normally everything else would get in the way. I needed to post, to have a goal, to get me to sit down, without inner argument, and get words on a page. After this, I’ll have my habit – it’s already stuck with me in September – and I’ll continue to keep this time and energy, but will put it into more “important” things, maybe a book, maybe more projects, who knows. But until December, I’ll keep the words here, once a day, until the next time I take off for some family time in a place where I belong.
The next few posts on here will be stories from the past few weeks unless something else more important interrupts. From trading post shops on the lakes of Maine to the backyards of Italian tomato farmers that grow their crop on an active volcano. There are stories everywhere, you just have to notice them.