On a dreary, rainy Sunday afternoon last weekend, I trudged back and forth across our wet back yard in the rain to fill and carry two five-gallon buckets with the water I needed for dyeing in the garage.
As I slipped and sloshed—hood up and hands full—I thought, I am willingly enduring long hours and physical labor, and I’m loving every minute.
That’s not something I’ve said or thought about other occupations or creative endeavors. Regular “work” and even writing fill me with dread and garner lots of avoidance.
Not this. I am wholeheartedly in it.