How slow do you want the fire to burn?

 

Just a little over a year ago, I had an urge to set up my special writing place. One person I wanted to tell was my aunt because I had been thinking how long it took me to get back to a place of writing--FOR ME. That urge happened just before she passed away. I probably wrote about it on Instagram, but tonight I'm writing here because I don't want it to post to Facebook, which is where my Instagram accounts lead. 

I am really hurting. 

Ironically this blog started because it was a connection with family and friends 20 years ago while I and my kids went through a massive crisis. Now I'm using it as a silent place while yet another crisis wave splashes on the shores. It hasn't stopped.

I came here to write and gasped at the last blog. I forgot I had written it until I saw it. Sanctuary.

This place that was to become a sanctuary is about to be "condemned." The floors and appliances will be torn out. Most of everything will follow the parade to a massive dumpster. The roof might be torn off as well, and who knows what the mold experts will find in the vents. It will be rebuilt, of course. It will be restored. Tonight I contemplate this: 

How slow do you want the fire to burn? I feel like that's the question I must answer for the helpful few who hold matches ready. Their estimates calculate the dollars and time to destroy and restore.

On the other side, I will curate the life I desire for myself. But wow is it hard to make these decisions.