On the day of our fifty-ninth wedding anniversary, I awoke to find he had died in his sleep. I am so greatful for that period of preparation we were given. He was able to get his affairs in order and make all the necessary arrangements ahead of time, saving me much stress and anxiety.
It's been five weeks of re-evaluating, re-assessing, and catching up on things that weren't important enough to do during the interim. Things as mundane as house-cleaning and down-sizing.
I wasn't able to write during that stretch of time, but I did take up a hobby that I'd set aside when my second son was born, over forty years ago--oil painting. It helped me through those times when I just needed to check out for a bit.
Last week, I discovered a renewed interest in some characters that have been waiting in my computer for my return. This week, I pulled out a completed manusript and sent it off to my publisher, hoping the response will be a contract for publication.
As I re-connect with my circle of writing friends and begin to make plans to become more active, I'm finding myself a bit hesitant to plunge back in. In a way, I treasure the reclusive lifestyle I'd grown accustomed to.
As I see my social calendar begin to fill, it makes me realize I may have to repack those oils and canvases again. Not sure, I want to give them up.
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