Crying in the fern room

Can I just be honest here?

Photo by Siobhan Flannery on Unsplash (Love this cyanotype!)

I call our guest room the “fern room” because back in the day when we were all stenciling things onto the paint, I added stencils of ferns to the room, positioning them as if they were growing out of the wainscoting. (Cuz we did that, right?)

Yesterday, I had just finished slogging through creating some sample recordings of my first book, in preparation for putting my books out on Audible. The learning curve was, well, intense, with the new software, and dusting off my skills from the old days of recording my blog posts for my old website in my former life as a speaker. (Good news—it was a lot like that riding a bike thing.)

But before I could record, I had to create a recording space in the closet amongst the winter coats, stored bins of off-season clothing, and the upper shelf full of suitcases we no longer use. (But keeping them for someday maybe, cuz we do that, right?)

Then I’d spent the day recording and editing and recording and editing again, shlepping my laptop from the basement office to the second floor closet studio in the fern room. (Not a problem hitting 10,000 steps that day).

By 4:45 pm, I was worn out. In between learning the software, figuring out the microphone and the headphones, and the details of positioning, volume controls, pop filtering and the rest, I’d also been working on website updates, meeting deadlines for another opportunity for work, drafting my next book, making lunch, and doing the laundry.

At 5:00, I cried in the fern room. That feeling of It’s all too much. I should just give it all up. And those doubts: Why the heck am I even doing this? What if I’m no good? Who cares anyway? (Do we all have those?)

And of course, the escape clause: It’s finally sunny outside and I should be out there after all these gray cloudy days and the long, cold winter. (Cuz we think all that, right?)

I cried. Sobbed actually. Even screamed a little. I may have even thrown something. I let it all out.

Maybe you’ve had moments like that. Maybe you’ve noticed what I noticed: I cried and then I stopped. The feeling of overwhelm didn’t last. Crying is that pressure relief valve on the top of the Instant Pot.

I let it go and I felt better. I called it a day and watched some mindless reruns on Hulu. I laughed a little. I went to bed early.

This morning, I reminded myself of the faith I have that there will be time enough for me to do all I’m supposed to do here on earth. All I need to do is the next thing. Not all the things— just the one next thing. It will all work out. Or not. And that will be okay, too. Just do the one next thing.

Today feels better. (Cuz it usually does, right?)

With love and gratitude,❤️
Mary

BOOK NEWS: MY COUSIN KRISSY is alive and well. Early comment: “Oh my gawd—what a character!” (Krissy snort-laughed her delight when she heard that.)

Also available at: Barnes&Noble.com, Books-A-Million, IndieBound