THAT NOT SO great picture above shows the pot full of kale and broccoli the kids and I harvested tonight, after four inches of snow, our first snow to speak of this season, fell all over the garden and the rest of the farm. We were supposed to have a dinner party tonight, but I started running a fever late this morning, and fearful of flu, we cancelled. So it was just the five of us (kids, the H, my mom) home today, decorating our tree, hanging wreaths on the porch, and (the kids, not me) sliding down the snowy hill, over and over and over again. For an illness-addled day, it was perfection.
That’s more than I can say about most of the last 30 days preceding. The last month has, in a word, sucked. Between the H’s terrifying accident, and its aftermath, both physical and emotional, I am completely spent. I used nanowrimo as intensive therapy, escaping into my fictional world every.single.day, even if I didn’t commit any new words to my draft. It was an amazing outlet, and exhilarating to prove to myself that I could actually write a piece of fiction–something I literally haven’t done, save fragments, since high school.
This month, I’ve got a new immersion project, which I’ll reveal at some point, and I am, as a wise friend counseled, just trying to get through the month.
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