Another snowy day in Western New York, and I am so glad that I work from home.
Grateful also to the man who provides the security to enable me this luxury, I always remember to thank him because he is the reason I am here. Turning to face the big window that faces the water, I listen to the pounding of the waves and the wind during this winter storm. A big pot of soup sits on the stove, simmering and filling our little house with delicious smells emanating from the frozen ham bone I saved from Christmas dinner. Like the memories in the back of my mind, it defrosts and the goodness seeps out, filling our hearts and minds with peaceful contentment
It never ceases to amaze me how much material I can garner from simply listening to the lake. Dressed in a sweats and wooly slippers, washing machine whirring in the background, I am ready to begin my days work at noon. Such is the ambiguity of a writer – our days can start anywhere from 3am or noon, depending when the muse decides to wake us and compel production. It seems easier to turn it off than on, but the pull to create should never be ignored.
The ballerinas and I are back in full force, the group of women who exercise together and with whom an unbreakable bond has been formed.
Originating from an exercise club, we quickly realized we enjoyed the dance aspect of the workout rather than the monotony of pushups and jumping jacks. Infused with pilates and yoga, we were quickly transformed into plie enthusiasts, first and second position fanatics (“are my legs facing the right way?”) and lover of deep stretches. I was surprised to learn the variations there are of manipulating your body aside a ballet bar. I never knew I could raise my leg above my head and not pass out. Nor did I realize the giddy freedom in having all the blood rush to my head while my rear end was facing heaven.
Muscles screaming and abdomen burning, an idea popped into my head for a column. My muse has the absolute worst timing, and I was unable to extricate myself from the bar, nor untie my legs on the mat later when she tried to poke me again. My only hope was that I would remember the thoughts and feelings surrounding it when I sat to look at the lake.
It never fails me.
Grateful also to the man who provides the security to enable me this luxury, I always remember to thank him because he is the reason I am here. Turning to face the big window that faces the water, I listen to the pounding of the waves and the wind during this winter storm. A big pot of soup sits on the stove, simmering and filling our little house with delicious smells emanating from the frozen ham bone I saved from Christmas dinner. Like the memories in the back of my mind, it defrosts and the goodness seeps out, filling our hearts and minds with peaceful contentment
It never ceases to amaze me how much material I can garner from simply listening to the lake. Dressed in a sweats and wooly slippers, washing machine whirring in the background, I am ready to begin my days work at noon. Such is the ambiguity of a writer – our days can start anywhere from 3am or noon, depending when the muse decides to wake us and compel production. It seems easier to turn it off than on, but the pull to create should never be ignored.
The ballerinas and I are back in full force, the group of women who exercise together and with whom an unbreakable bond has been formed.
Originating from an exercise club, we quickly realized we enjoyed the dance aspect of the workout rather than the monotony of pushups and jumping jacks. Infused with pilates and yoga, we were quickly transformed into plie enthusiasts, first and second position fanatics (“are my legs facing the right way?”) and lover of deep stretches. I was surprised to learn the variations there are of manipulating your body aside a ballet bar. I never knew I could raise my leg above my head and not pass out. Nor did I realize the giddy freedom in having all the blood rush to my head while my rear end was facing heaven.Muscles screaming and abdomen burning, an idea popped into my head for a column. My muse has the absolute worst timing, and I was unable to extricate myself from the bar, nor untie my legs on the mat later when she tried to poke me again. My only hope was that I would remember the thoughts and feelings surrounding it when I sat to look at the lake.
It never fails me.
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