Going up this mountain, I was curious to find out how it would be to have all day to write.
That's all I wanted to find out. I wasn't expecting any other lessons thrown my way.

One evening this week, I was working on my computer when I felt a recurring burning sensation in my back flair up and fade out like a lighthouse. That nasty ridge along my left shoulder blade told me to stop. But I was sorting my pictures in photoshop and was having too much fun to quit. So I continued.

That evening the pain grew stronger, and it was officially declared an injury the next morning.

Thanks to the help of Marcia, who rubbed some soothing creme on my back, Deborah (chef, artist and -turns out excellent masseuse), and an icepack from the Farmacia, I felt a little better soon.

I spent most of the day reading my book in the sun, and as I lay in my bed in the afternoon, my icepack securely tucked under that nasty shoulderblade, I realised what idealised assumptions I had made, coming here.

For example, that all fifteen people in the house would be lovely and welcoming all the time, including early in the morning, that it would be perfectly acceptable to work at my computer hours on end without any consequences, that I would never feel lonely, that I would never feel rushed now that there was so much time The list goes on and on.

As I am typing this on a couch, with two plush pillows tucked in my back, I realise that nothing is ever perfect. Never.

Living up a beautiful mountain for a month is still living, and it comes with people snubbing you, or having an off day. It is part of the game, and resetting my expectations has helped me through this little injury. Enjoy the dream but foster realistic expectations.
So that is what it feels like to write all day.