I am currently in a place where all the irons I had in the fire have gone cold. No one wants anything more from me than a well-trained monkey could do. I am trying to use this quiet time to accomplish some things that need doing, like organizing areas of the house in detail and finishing the quilt I started years ago. I want so desperately to sink my teeth into something. I want to feel that deep connection to action and purpose.
Why am I writing this here? Writing used to be a means of connection for me. The more disconnected I feel, the harder it is to reconnect. Perhaps if I reach out blindly, bravely, forcing my foot forward, the next step will become obvious and come easier.