We finally moved the moldy, dirty couch in the crushed Florida room out to the swale for garbage disposal. The black mold growing in it convinced me it was time. DH had to literally peel back the door to get the couch through. There were green things growing on it! Our Chia couch. Just add water and watch it grow.
My favorite couch. I'd sit there, in the Florida room, windows wide open to allow in the breeze, gaze out into the garden with the two towering trees and the hammock swinging between them, and happily write.
This must be why I'm struggling so lately with my writing. I think hurricane Wilma caused a trauma in my life I've not truly acknowledged. Instead, I'm listening to EVERYONE who insists I should be grateful it wasn't worse.
Like at the party we attended the other night. A neighbor said, "It could have been much worse. We were lucky."
Uh-huh. Easy to say that when you lost two roof shingles, bud. It's like being in a car accident and one victim, who received a small scratch, says, "You should be glad it wasn't worse!" while you're sporting two broken arms and a busted jaw.
I lost my favorite room to write. I lost my two beloved trees out back, my reading hammock. Our roof is dented and leaks. Our hot tub is broken. And the insurance nightmares have only just begun.
I need to bid farewell to the past, and my comfort zone, and move ahead to the future. Bid good-bye to our Chia couch, and find a new comfort zone. Take each day and its challenges as it comes. And keep writing, despite the obstacles. It's like driving on the interstate. You can slow down, but if you pull off the road and stop, because you're afraid, you may never get back onto the express lane.
Right now I'm riding a bicycle on the writing freeway while others zip past me in their Mercedes and sedans and the sporty little imports.
I'm not getting very far. Others may smirk as they pass me by. But hell, I'm still peddling. And damnit, I'm not going to stop. Even if I can only peddle out one paragraph a day.