The Privilege of Writing

I over-did the unloading of some lumber last autumn and developed "frozen shoulder" syndrome in my right shoulder.  I'm still trying to work it out, and oh! is it painful!  Some mornings my arm aches so horribly I cannot write at all, not before doing a half hour of stretching exercises that convert the grueling ache into a painful soreness that's somehow easier to handle. 

In fact, writing is feeling like quite the privilege these days.  In truth, it always was.  If there's not the physical pain, or depression, creating obstacles to putting thoughts on a page, there was the cold, and frozen fingers at the typewriter, or too many fumes from the gas heater.  I HAVE spent many-a-morning sitting in my tent at the computer with a vapor mask on!  And before all that there was the overly hectic and stressed work schedule that drained my time, energy, and creativity dry.  It's a great privilege to be able to write; even simply to connect to one's emotions enough to write is quite the accomplishment.  For long swaths of my life that was not the case, or the environment was unsafe, a place where private journals were stolen, raped of their content, read without permission.

Now I live on a dime in order to write.  I live in the woods for the peace, and the quiet.  I build my own home so I can work part-time instead of lending full-time devotion of my energies elsewhere. 

I rise before dawn, before the birds stir the air with their cheery communications, and I say to myself:  TODAY I get to write!  NOW I get to write!  And I know the privilege of it all, and as time goes by I understand and appreciate it, the gift of it, more and more.