The mother of all bull rides

For a nice long while my writing was moving along briskly and I enjoyed it.  When I got stuck, the timing of a couple of new friends offering to go through “The Artists’ Way” workbook by Julia Cameron, with me turned out to be a light in the dark.  At first I craved sweets like a six year old, which isn’t like me at all.  My two friends said they had the same thing happen the first week or more, and for a time I accepted it.  Until I noticed, of course I noticed, how hard it was to bounce back.  The sugar rush would raise me high and then smack me down.  That coupled with the cleaning out of old emotional messes was threatening to knock me down.

I had a brilliant idea, I needed to exercise more.  I don’t particularly enjoy it, but afterwards I feel excellent, I drink more water, I make it through the day better and I sleep like a champ.  I felt as if I had unlocked the mysteries of the world.  My sweet-heart even joined me, which made it better.  Nothing like having a supportive hand to hold.  I was riding high, feeling like a genius.

Only now my mother in law has broken both of her ankles, and the best choice was to bring her here to live while she recovers.  I have very little positive to say about this situation right now, so I’ll stop there.

I feel as if the bull I was on, and thought I had tamed, has thrown me. I’m sitting in the dust with an aching arse, looking up the mountainous size of it’s back and wincing at the idea of getting back on.   But that is all there is to do.  I’ll be looking for jocularity and stories of others’ adventures of getting up off their duff.  Excuse me while I look around for where my hat got to.


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