Just Write {170}

January 13, 2015

I moved my office to The Building, instead of home.  I finally realized this made the most sense. We have the Cre8tive Escape for freelancers, artists and other creatives and we were all full-up, which is good. But someone could no longer rent, which made an office/studio available. There is less of a risk of distraction if I plant myself here every day that I can, to work. I still freelance, aside from a couple other jobs. When I am not working those couple of other jobs, I really need to be writing.

I need to be writing.

My small desk sits in front of a window that faces the back of the post office, a gas station, a liquor store, main street. I am looking at the tops of buildings, since our building sits a little higher. I always feel the history of this place, rumbling underneath all the new, like the truck motors humming back here, to pick up mail; to bring it to all the history-makers.

People walk by too, with layers and hats and mittens and coats. They are hunched and quick-footed. It is so cold. Some of us warm up our vehicles, or leave them running, just to avoid the discomfort of this cold. Some of us bundle up and walk around in it. We each have our own way, our reasons, our coping, our different views on what is Enough.

Some breathe it in and call it refreshing. Some warm up blankets in the dryer, cover their slippered feet with them, hardly ever leave.

Me? It depends on the day. I suppose it is like any discomfort, I embrace it or I don’t, and it is most likely dependent on how tired I am, how distraught with ruminations, how much of a fear cave I’ve carved for dwelling in. I can’t stand the freezing temperatures when I am already so overcome. And some other days I breathe it in, let it hit my lungs, waking up every cell. I call it good, despite how much it hurts my hands, my nose, my prickly skin.

This kind of cold is much the same as all of life’s painful discomforts. We are all shivering here, bent with the tension of fighting off the conditions. Some days we hide, some days we get up and move. Getting through it is the only way for us to know that we can.

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The Long Incredible Walk of Ole Knudson

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This is the 170th installment of Just Write, an exercise in free writing your ordinary and extraordinary moments. {New here? Please see the details.} I would love to read your freely written words so join me and link up below. You can add the url of your post at any time. Just be sure it’s a link to your Just Write post, not to your main page. (Then link back to this post in your Just Write post so people know where to go if they’d like to join in.) (Any links not following those two guidelines will be deleted.)

Also. Please take a moment to visit someone else who has linked up! It’s a really good way to meet new writers and get inspired by the meaning behind their moments. Word?

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