In my wonderful yoga class, I float into a state of serene mindfulness that is invaded by thoughts of taking my children out for hot chocolate in their pajamas, and a beautiful memory of my mum and dad taking my brother and me out in our robes that my mother had made, with the cords of twisted wool she later taught me how to create. Wonderful the way the writing of memoir renews one's memory and revives moments we thought lost forever. Twisted yarns, let go...
As for the writing itself, while the children are bouncing on inflatables in the morning this week, I am struggling with bringing my text to life. Frustration, elation, frustration -- the bouncy castle of the writer...
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