Excavate, Renovate, Rebuild

A certain stirring lingers deep in her gut. Nat can't shake it but for the life of her she can't name it, either. Hour after hour of plugging straight through and now she hits the pillow at night and wakes up oblivious to her surroundings. At least she's sleeping. Deep, dreamless exhaustion. If only she'd strung herself out like this months earlier she'd have saved herself the anixiety of insomnia and long dark nights of the soul, counting down minutes til sunrise and the dawn of a new day. Another cycle completed. The world keeps turning regardless of how mired in stasis Nat is. There's hope in that, she thinks. She charts the shape of the moon. Full, half, quarter, crescent. On cloudy nights she draws the curtains and drowns herself in Rachmaninoff, headphones cradling her ears on the pillow. When sleep won't come the music lulls her into a semi catatonic state. Nat's not sure it's restorative or meditative but it drowns out the interior noise which won't let her rest. But it's the physical work that's her best medicine. Long, brutal hours on her feet, lifting, toting, pushing and pulling. Digging. Ripping out from the root. Bundling, stacking, carting away. It's a huge property. Years of neglect and a season of tropical storms have set Nat up for months, maybe years of excavation, demolition, then restoration. Making it up as she goes along, as always. Exactly what she needs. A rewiring of her physical sense memories. Exorcism by exercise. Tearing down is easy, mistakes can be made, she can be careless and messy, cruel and unkind. Apparently she excels at this. That stirs up her insides. She steps back and absorbs the massive undertaking laid out before her. Slowly the new build takes shape in her mind. Sagging soffit is replaced by clean gutters, broken panes of glass are refit with triple paned weather proofed panels, floor to ceiling light streaming in facing the water. So tired. Fifteen hour days defeat and reward her. Anything less though and she gets lost in her own diseased, decaying loop. His words.Those words, so harsh, blaming, hateful, finite. Dig it up, tear it down, excavate the rot then plant anew, better beds, stronger foundations, bigger rooms, kinder lines. A happier home this time round.

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