I lost my mojo but I found some part of it.
I used to sit outside every day when I bought this house; life happened and I stopped doing that. I started doing it again and sometimes wrote while out there as well. And then I stopped doing that.
I realized I missed outside and then it was super windy and I longed to be out there.
One day I went out and sat on this broken-down rolling chair that somehow ended up on the back porch. The sun touched me and held me in its hot arms.
I couldn’t get away, even when I came back in the house.
I’m back to spending time outside, letting the sun hold me in its hot arms.
I went out there today. I had a hoodie on over pajamas and sat on the rolling chair as the sun teased me: it hid behind clouds and then burst out to grab me in an embrace that made my breath melt in my lungs while the breeze from the mountains at my back tried to make me forget the heat.
I napped. I closed my eyes in the sun and thought about my newest work in progress. The story is flowing faster than my fingers, faster than my mind. And that’s okay. I dream it, imagining the end, the middle, the acknowledgement, the edits.
Good mojo, all of it.