I think I am nesting. I agree, it feels strange to me too.
No, I’m not pregnant. No, I’m not adopting. No, I don’t have a surrogate. There is no plan of a baby coming to live at our house. But, I think I am nesting.
It’s been going on for a few weeks, months maybe. I didn’t notice it right way.
What I noticed…
First, I realized that I needed to organize all of my paperwork for the book courses I’m taking. So, I went to Staples and bought a three-ring binder in my favorite color. I bought dividers with pockets and a new three-hold punch because the one I received for my 10th birthday (and yes, I loved it!) finally crapped out.
After shopping, I came home and three-hole punched all the papers and organized them in my lovely new binder. I even printed a photo of me that was used for some marketing at my yoga studio. I loved the idea of seeing my hands open to receive, my body in prostration to the Divine.
Next, I started making new friends with those who understood my new position in life — a writer on the verge of writing a book. I longed for connection with my fellow writers as we met each week over zoom to reflect on our work. After each call I felt connected to each of those individuals. I felt heard and noticed. I felt celebrated!
Then I began to realize that I would need to make more space in my life for this new work. I saw that I couldn’t keep managing everything and that a few things would need to go. I announced my break from quilting. I acknowledged I wouldn’t be at yoga as often. I confessed that I wouldn’t be training as hard for my upcoming races. I knew I needed to make space in my schedule for this new thing.
It wasn’t just time though. I needed physical space too. I needed a place to set my things — a place that’s not the ottoman in our living room. I needed a designated area for writing and thinking. So, over the weekend, I began making space in my sewing room. I cleared out boxes of scraps and other materials I know I won’t use. I folded up the ironing board and moved the cutting table. I made a spot in front of the window for a desk.
And then it dawned on me — I think I am nesting. I’m getting ready for this new thing. I’m making space. I’m making room. I’m preparing for a birth — just not the kind I was expecting.
None of this is what I expected.
When we bought this house with three bedrooms, we planned for our bedroom, my husband’s office and a guest room that would eventually be the baby’s room.
Eventually we realized not enough people stay here (his family is close by, my parents have space for my brothers when they are in town, etc), so we donated the bed and I took over the room with my sewing projects. My husband built me a custom sewing table. I have a large cutting table and the ironing board is always out. Later my husband built a custom shelf for my fabric that fits in the closet. With every change and addition, I was moving closer to acceptance — this will never be a child’s room.
And yet, here I am, in this room that held so many possibilities, nesting. I’m not preparing for a child, but instead, a book. It’s not the same, I realize that. But I’m seeing how much work and preparation goes into the creation of a book.
Yes, I think I am nesting and I know why. I’m excited. I’m nervous. I’m ready. I’m unsure. I need something to do with this energy. I want to be ready for next week when I begin writing my sample chapters that will be used in the book proposal.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve been working on this “book” since early spring and haven’t written any of it yet. Seems a bit counterintuitive, but it’s working. And now my mind and spirit are coming together saying, “It’s time!”
Here. I. Go.