For a week, I have felt tension and anxiety slowly infiltrate my body. It has hidden in my muscles knotting them into small lumps of pain and can be felt flitting around like a hundred butterflies inside my chest. I can see it now in the creases of my forehead and the tiny wrinkles at the corner of my eyes. But I didn’t know it was there until just before I sat down to write this post. They boys have left for football practice and to ref a game. Cindy Lou hasn’t returned home from school yet, instead she’s watching a soccer game down the road. And it is utterly and completely silent here except for a dull steady hum coming from some unknown source outside my window, and the occasional ping of my iPhone informing me of, what I am sure is, just another junk mail message. They come in swarms, tempting me to shut down the account entirely, but that is another matter and post all together. So here I sit silently typing. Click. Click. Hummmmmmmmm. Click click click click click. Hummmmmmmm. I take a deep breath in and let it out. And when it gets stuck somewhere deep inside my chest that’s when the anxiety becomes evident. I’m sure that breath is stuck in their dodging anxiety-ridden butterflies ten at a time. Ping (ugh, more junk). But for some reason the butterflies are winning. Making it impossible to release what was to be that deep cleansing breath that would set me on my feet. Lets me feel calm and OK. Perhaps it is the mach speed I’ve been working at lately or this impassioned determination that drives me to work harder, write longer, connect more, create …. that is bringing on these unwanted changes. Because I am truly happy and excited and feeling more creative than I’ve ever felt. And again, like with this blog when I started, I am meeting amazing women who constantly lift me up and support me with simply a kind word or two. So why aren’t the butterflies leaving, and why did the indulgence of near brutal massage (which I so, so needed by the way) not break up the stress knotted tight in my back, shoulders and neck. You know why? Because none of it — the breaths, the steady kneading, the gentle music and hot stones — could take the place of this right here. Pure, unadulterated, uninterrupted, therapeutic, writing consciousness is happening right know. I can hear everything … the plane flying low over my house, the tiny little back and forth splashes in my front loading washer, the hum (yup it’s still there) from nowhere outside … Hmmm. The hum, the steady, melodic, intoxicating hum that I couldn’t identify is coming from my fingertips. Well not exactly. It’s coming from the laptop that my fingertips are speedily typing on and now instead of being an annoying invasion into the very rare silence in the house, it moves me. Connects me. It is me … and there it is. I am back. The butterflies are gone. The shoulders still knotted but not quite so tightly. And the headache and the tears that were threatening to escape their internal holds a moment ago are gone. I take a deep breath … and (there it is) let it out in a long, deep and slow whisper. Ahhhh! And that is why I blog. Renaissance Mom fans, I’m not going anywhere.