a week of roots, maybe
Jan. 26th, 2018 04:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jazzfishSo, I moved back in on Saturday.
That went remarkably well. Tranquility are still fantastic movers. Towards the end when I was starting to run down a few friends showed up to provide support, and we got the bookcases where I (think I) want them and the games on shelves.
Since then I've been spending a ridiculous amount of time and money getting the apartment, mostly the kitchen, to a functional state. I think it's nearly there: there's some random stuff I still want, like a dishdrainer or a trashcan (!) but it's definitely tipped over into 'functional.' And I need to do some serious grocery shopping, of the kind where I don't (wisely) give up halfway through because I'm hungry and tired and cranky. I also also need to get some spices, more than just "salt" and "pepper" and "cinnamon".
The spare room's a wreck, there are boxes of books all over the living space, and I still don't have a real dining-room table. But it's starting to feel like ... like home. Like my own place.
Still not sure how I feel about that.
Also I badly need a real bed. The queen-sized Ikea futonesque guest bed is alright but definitely not a long-term solution, and its replacement is worse. I threw money at Emily to buy a bed for the couple of months she had a renter in the condo, thinking it would be for longer. When I moved I left the other behind, planning to sell it to whoever moved into my room at Mya's. Turns out the new bed is a full-size not a queen, and it's the hardest and least-comfortable bed I've ever slept on. It's gotta go.
On Sunday the yoga studio had a special class and small party for people who'd done more than seventy-five classes last year. I was kinda startled to see that I'd done ninety-four, especially considering that a) I started in April and b) I'm gone one week in four or so.
I'm still enjoying yoga. Reluctant to quantify what precisely I'm "getting out of it" but ... I like it. I'm usually happier after a class, I like having a better sense of my physical body. It feels like it's worth waking up early for. And I may even be getting some flexibility in my legs, which is not something I ever thought would happen.
I suspect that my ideal yoga schedule is something like two days on, one day off. That keeps it fresh, keeps it from feeling boring or like something I /have/ to do, and gives me a chance to rest up a bit while not losing everything I've learned or developed.
I haven't been writing since I lost my writing group in the aftermath of the breakup. In fairness, I was barely writing for the first half of the year at all. But I signed up for the Rainforest Writers Retreat again anyway.
It's in mid-March; by then I ought to have my house in order (literally if not figuratively) and be able to settle into some sort of schedule. So if and when it provides me with a "right, this writing thing is actually pretty fun" kick, I can hope to be able to turn that into writing a bit each day. I mean, that or it'll convince me that fiction writing is, in fact, a thing that can safely be laid to rest by the wayside for now.
In some ways I don't feel like I'm in a holding pattern anymore, or not as much of one at least. Movement. Growth? Anchoring. Maybe having something that I can make into a temporary home, and doing the work of making it a temporary home, gives me the security to reach back out.
That went remarkably well. Tranquility are still fantastic movers. Towards the end when I was starting to run down a few friends showed up to provide support, and we got the bookcases where I (think I) want them and the games on shelves.
Since then I've been spending a ridiculous amount of time and money getting the apartment, mostly the kitchen, to a functional state. I think it's nearly there: there's some random stuff I still want, like a dishdrainer or a trashcan (!) but it's definitely tipped over into 'functional.' And I need to do some serious grocery shopping, of the kind where I don't (wisely) give up halfway through because I'm hungry and tired and cranky. I also also need to get some spices, more than just "salt" and "pepper" and "cinnamon".
The spare room's a wreck, there are boxes of books all over the living space, and I still don't have a real dining-room table. But it's starting to feel like ... like home. Like my own place.
Still not sure how I feel about that.
Also I badly need a real bed. The queen-sized Ikea futonesque guest bed is alright but definitely not a long-term solution, and its replacement is worse. I threw money at Emily to buy a bed for the couple of months she had a renter in the condo, thinking it would be for longer. When I moved I left the other behind, planning to sell it to whoever moved into my room at Mya's. Turns out the new bed is a full-size not a queen, and it's the hardest and least-comfortable bed I've ever slept on. It's gotta go.
On Sunday the yoga studio had a special class and small party for people who'd done more than seventy-five classes last year. I was kinda startled to see that I'd done ninety-four, especially considering that a) I started in April and b) I'm gone one week in four or so.
I'm still enjoying yoga. Reluctant to quantify what precisely I'm "getting out of it" but ... I like it. I'm usually happier after a class, I like having a better sense of my physical body. It feels like it's worth waking up early for. And I may even be getting some flexibility in my legs, which is not something I ever thought would happen.
I suspect that my ideal yoga schedule is something like two days on, one day off. That keeps it fresh, keeps it from feeling boring or like something I /have/ to do, and gives me a chance to rest up a bit while not losing everything I've learned or developed.
I haven't been writing since I lost my writing group in the aftermath of the breakup. In fairness, I was barely writing for the first half of the year at all. But I signed up for the Rainforest Writers Retreat again anyway.
It's in mid-March; by then I ought to have my house in order (literally if not figuratively) and be able to settle into some sort of schedule. So if and when it provides me with a "right, this writing thing is actually pretty fun" kick, I can hope to be able to turn that into writing a bit each day. I mean, that or it'll convince me that fiction writing is, in fact, a thing that can safely be laid to rest by the wayside for now.
In some ways I don't feel like I'm in a holding pattern anymore, or not as much of one at least. Movement. Growth? Anchoring. Maybe having something that I can make into a temporary home, and doing the work of making it a temporary home, gives me the security to reach back out.