But for today, I'm still angry, hurt, scared, and just trying to get through each day. Last week seemed easy by comparison to this week. Last week I was able to spend each day with a dozen small tasks, feeling like I was making headway. But now a week later, it all crashes in on me every few hours or so. Keeping busy certainly helps, but the days seem so long. Talking to people helps, but most everyone just wants to talk about things that are going on, and that's just like wading back out into the muck and trying to find my way. I come out with boots full of mud.
I've been working on a home office for years. Literally years. Fancied myself a spot where I could sit and write, maybe the next Great American Novel would suddenly come flying out of my fingers and on to the screen. A place to curl up in a cozy chair and read a book. I certainly have stacks of them around here waiting to be read.
For the near future, most writing will have to be here. Venting actually. Not the writing I intended.
But for now, no grey box for me (at the "Speedway" code name, I had grey walls, grey carpet, black desk and no window). Here I have two windows and light and loved objects. Surrounded by birds, both inside and and out.
And the chickadees showed up yesterday.