The last few days, the heat has forced us to grab a few blankets and sleep on the ground floor of our house. On our makeshift beds on the bare floor tiles, with a fan running all night long, we managed to sleep despite the record breaking temperatures in the LA area.
Sweltering in the heat, I suffer an anxiety attack when I start packing the first box for our impending move. I cry and scream and throw punches. “I don’t want to move again. I don’t want to start again,” I tell my husband. When I calm down, my husband and I decide to place the boxes in two different groups, and write our names depending on whose set of boxes it is. One group of boxes will go to a rental house nearby. The other group of boxes is mine, destination unknown.
Not being able to see my next step affects me in a profound way. But my mind can only handle one major stressor at the time, and I have decided to focus on publishing my book in the fall. If necessary, the boxes will go in storage.
On the trail, I forget about the packing. I keep my ears on the birds and snakes, and my mind on the loose ends of the story. Because I have moved so much and the books goes into the back burner all too frequently, I lose momentum and with it, my voice. Maybe is the heat, but I feel my voice is back. I feel it flowing through the story as I give the final touches: double folding corners, sewing the buttons and a blind hem stitch.
When I get home from the trail, I drink an entire bottle of water, and turn on the fan and my computer. I will write the heat wave, among the boxes of my next move, with an uncertain future ahead of me. I will carry this project to completion.
