I have been here in Ohio for almost exactly thirty days, as a matter of fact it will be that on Monday at around six P.M. One whole month. I had a friend ask me if I have done all the things one should and has to do when moving to a new town. My answer was, no, not really. I seem to be in a sort of suspended animation, like those poor bugs the spider bites and leaves hanging by her web she has wound about them. Alive but not free.
I realized today that what I need to do is find my Writer’s Loft. I need to express this whole business of moving and starting over. For the most part it has been terribly exciting, so much so that this lull is a bit, well, lullish! There is a danger here of me becoming so complacent that I will end up in a trough of depression before I am aware I have sunk into it. It is a family curse, that trough. Some of my ancestors never were able to climb out of it, they remained stranded in it all alone for the largest part of their lives.
But I am my mother’s daughter, my grandmother is in me as is my great and great-great grandmothers. I can almost see them standing there, right in front of this tiny table I am typing on, hands on hips, head titled at that ‘what do you think you are doing’ angle. They were the pioneers, the adventurers, the real estate speculators before it was named as such. They were the ones who packed up and climbed up and walked the path that I am now trodding with such tepid steps. Their blood is in my veins, haranguing me to not give up or give in.
Now the bells of St. Rose are chiming the hour, their melodious ringing reminding me that time is never stagnant. Nor is life for that matter.
So, I shall rally tomorrow (for all things are always much fresher in the morning, especially this business of writing and lofts and such), with my head up, my shoulders back, and my feet planted firmly on this green earth about me.
I think I just might check out some places in Cincinnati. There is one that is in a old school building. A perfect place to write. Another is on a hill overlooking the city. Beautiful vistas and green rolling hills for DaBoys to frolic and run on. Well, as fast as I can run any way.
The only truth I know about this is that I must do what feeds my soul. I must allow my inner muse to open her heart and let the words flow down to the keyboard in her own manner. A loft, a view, a fine old building with character of its own—these are what she craves. Some place that frees her to wander art galleries, to take walks with DaBoys and explore the world around us. And if God will allow it, water with which to sooth the muse when she gets weary from all it. A river, a lake, any expanse of water with its tinkling, splashing, laughing, sighing and bold voice.
So, I shall be like the writers and artist in Paris in the 1920’s; I shall look for that perfect loft, or balcony, or rooftop that my muse says to me “Yes!! This is it”. And hope she does also remember the small size of my purse.