Sometimes I worry. Don't we all?
And I fret.
Mainly about money.
Of the metaphorical poorhouse.
And then I remember Mabel the maple. Who lives with me. A few of you might remember Mabel who technically "died" completely bowled over by a storm, her branches all lopped off for firewood. And then as her trunk was denuded of branches she rose again, she righted herself. And sprouted like a mad thing.
Much like me lately after my fretstorm.
In rapid succession (seriously, in a week!):
One of my stories is being published in an anthology coming out in the fall.
My tigeen is renting out quite nicely.
I was booked for more elder abuse sessions around the island.
Last night I gave a seanachie performance for one of the bigger Canadian magazines. Fingers crossed: a feature.
I sold a great whack of my cards to an inn.
And I was asked to conduct a (paying) writers' workshop in the fall featuring memoir writing.
Lots of little branches.
Just like Mabel.