For the last year, I’ve been taken with the idea of finding a rhythm to life. Which seems different than time management, or careful planning, or even of necessarily reducing the number of activities in which I engage. It feels like a balance of work and rest, of input and outflow, of engagement and escape. And it is definitely a work in progress.
So I noticed this with some interest. Several weeks ago, with the infertility stakes riding high and with work pressing in hard, I started skipping days of running. Which lead to several consecutive skips, and then whole weeks off. What I didn’t realize is that, at the same time, my writing did the same thing. And now, my days all bleed together as I rush from fire to fire, stoking some and quenching others.