Returning

For six months my poetry and non-fiction work in progress was contained in a plastic bin stored in the trunk of my car. It went everywhere with me. Finally, I carried the heavy bin up the steep stairs to my studio apartment.  I began to reread what was written. Some of which, I still liked. Then I  moved again. The writing went back in the bin. With this move, I gained a study. A small room with two windows, one facing the ocean, the other a side yard. Even though the view is blocked by larger houses, the horizon and shore  is ever present. For months until my belongings were gathered from five locations, the writing stayed in the bin tucked under my desk. I bought furniture with baskets for storage and planned to use the top to organize my writing:  poems and prose.  Finally, the work came out of the bin and placed in three piles: one for poems  and two for prose. The writing remained untouched for several more months.

Today I begin my first at home writing retreat after three years of constant change.  Nothing remains of my former life except family love, a few friends, my old car and writing stored in a bin.

I understand I am down to it by default. Time taken off from work for plans that became impossible, leaving days of unstructured time. Time to return to the writing and begin my newest life.