I literally did not leave the house all weekend. Granted, the weather was crappy and I had squares to crochet and words to write and I did all that and felt very accomplished. But I didn’t leave the house all weekend. I had a good excuse.
But I barely left the house last weekend. And the weather was lovely. And yes, I had a good excuse. I was “recharging” from Thanksgiving.
But the weekend before that, when I was “gearing up for Thanksgiving”? I left the house once.
I am content to sit in the house. I am content to make no plans or as few a plans as I can get away with and thus see few of the people who I like and care about. And, should they notice, I can truthfully say that I’m fine, because I am fine. I’m just fine in a way that is less rich than usual.
I haven’t read a book since Sadie died. I don’t have any good fiction ideas. I’ve only written one story.
And the time when I mull things over? My walks? They’re kind of not working for me.
I am not ready in my heart for another dog. But I’m starting to be concerned about what happens to the rest of my life while my heart dithers.
And I’m starting to wonder if I’m just not respecting the Year of Things I Feel Ambiguously About by expecting the question of whether the time is right to get another dog to be answered unambiguously.
In related news, we learned of a yellow lab in need of a home.