I spent yesterday doing just what I wanted to. I finished up a couple of writing assignments, dyed some yarn, worked on this afghan, picked out a pattern for another afghan, had a fire in the fire place.
I sometimes, maybe a lot of the time, have a hard time figuring out what I want to do. It’s weird to force yourself to practice figuring out what you’d enjoy.
But I do it because I want to be happy and I want to recognize when I’m happy.
The dog ate half a thin mint on Friday. He lived. But it freaked me out.
I have been asked to speak to a community group in February about the bombing project. I’m excited but nervous.
A thing that causes me a lot of anxiety is that I know there are going to be a ton of things in my book that are wrong. I just didn’t have access to the things I needed or the skill to get to them or I’m sure I’m misinterpreting things or just plain old missed things.
And I keep telling myself that I am wrong in the right direction, that at least I’m showing where people need to be looking. But I fret about it all the time.