unplugged

I unplugged

This long holiday weekend was spent with no phone or social media or access to news of any kind.
I lived in my little holiday bubble.

At first it seemed so simple, but then I realized I was automatically going to check email. I did this frequently. I made a conscious effort to note how many times I went to check email. Or Twitter. Or Facebook.
Conclusion: A lot.

At first I turned off the computer, but then realized that I could accomplish some writing and cleaning out photo libraries, so I turned off the wifi instead.

Here's what I did in just 24 hours:

Read, wrote, edited and cleared out hundreds of photos, cleaned out the fridge, laundry, cooked, baked, walked, organized, threw out a chair, sorted clothes, started a box for the thrift store, watched a marathon of the old Bewitched series (that's right,  I own the series... don't judge), slept


How I feel:

Amazing, accomplished, rested, calm.



The plan was to turn on and tune in today, but I have to say, I'm actually reluctant to reconnect. I'm dragging it out, the way an addict pushes for one more hour of sobriety, the way a runner pushes herself to just one more mile. Or at least as I imagine, having never been an addict or a runner. While I do not run  (couldn't even run for a donut) I do marathons of social media every day. It's part of my work, and as with most of us, part of my life.


This self-imposed retreat has been good for me.
Although I am solitary by nature, being alone really isn't the same with the reach of those social tentacles.

Maybe I'll just give it another hour...


UPDATE..
Well I did turn on the phone eventually to 17 texts and my email blew up. But qu'elle suprise, nobody died.
It was worth every unplugged minute

challenging channeling changing

Being a writer is a bit like being a schizophrenic. There are alway so many voices in your head.

Mine won't shut up. They are in some limbo yard, chattering and running and jumping at the walls to try to climb over and and jump for a chance to live a life on the page. They just want to be heard.

It's easy to see how writers are prone to maladies and madness. 

The solitude from which you feed also feeds from you. 

Nourish and deplete.

These self imposed writer retreats are much that way. 

When I spend a lot of time in the head of my characters it starts to affect my mood. I can become dark if their stories are dark ones. 

This is why it takes me so long to commit to sit. 

I know that once I do, it will spread like an ink drop in a glass of water. That's how I see the darkness enter me- swirling slowly down in a beautifully hypnotic process

But if I don't let it come out through my tapping fingers, the voices won't stop. 

The only way to make them quiet is to tell their stories. It's hard to say if it is an channeling or performing an exorcism. Chapters write themselves in my head, but only seeing the words in physical form will do. 

So that's what I am doing in my little retreat by the ocean in a winter storm- trying to free some souls and quiet some voices.

And walk that thin dark line.

my sweet retreat