Sometimes . . . I check out.

Like, as in, I really check out.

I don’t read my email. I don’t pay attention to the news in any form. I don’t look at Instagram. I don’t seek company. I don’t go anywhere.

Sometimes I actually do physically “go” somewhere else (my garden, our cabin up north, on a long walk), but usually it’s a more metaphorical kind of “going.”  I go to my journal. Or to a book or some poetry. Or I make something (food or a painting or something with fabric or yarn).

I’m not usually checked out for long. Sometimes a few hours. Never more than a few days.

I always come back.

I’ve always felt kinda bad about the times when I check myself out of the world. It’s usually because . . . something gets to be “too much” for me. The state of the world (often). One-sided relationships. Feeling stuck (in my art or my routine). A drying-up of ideas. It always feels . . . selfish. Like my privilege is showing. Because, bottom line, I have the freedom and the ability TO check out. I can do that, and I can get away with it.

But this month (as I was in a checked-out mode), I realized . . . this is me.
Needing space.
Taking space.

Sometimes SPACE . . . is a refuge.
And that’s okay.


How about you? What’s your word got you thinking about this month?