Burrowing

Yesterday, I bumped into a friend who suggested we get together for lunch while the kids are at camp. I adore this friend and would love to see her, but in my body it felt like she was asking to put a pillow over my face in an effort to kill me.

Today is the fourth day of camp. The first day I had appointments. The second day was chock full of things I wanted to do. Coffee with friends. Yoga. Writing group. Library for adult, not kid books.

The third day was full of phone conversations and errands. Little bits of writing but not enough. By afternoon when this sweet friend suggested we get together for lunch, I started to twitch.

It is time to write. I don’t want to have lunch. I don’t want to talk on the phone. I don’t want to do anything but write (I do want to have wine at porch night, but that is after writing).

After dropping the children off this morning, I pulled into our driveway. A neighbor friend was out front with a cup of tea, surveying her garden. I waved politely then looked to the ground, making a bee line into the house thinking, “Don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me.”

It wasn’t ’til I sat down and began to type that I realized I’d not been breathing. Breathing and writing. One in the same.

Fingers flying I was filled with relief.

I’d written 1697 words before noon.