Remodeling always takes longer than planned. Longer than they say. Longer than the promise our confidence grants in the rosy beginning, all eyes on the finish line. I ought know this by now, all the nights I've spent sleeping on the floor for whatever reason, whether by necessity, choice, or in the Bardo, waiting and remembering, of two worlds, but not quite this one.
The good news is that it has yielded some great prompts about sleeping on the floor... so many places across the ages: the barn loft at Camp Bar 717, the plush wine-pink carpeted floor at CC's—my French nextdoor neighbor growing up—in my Smokey the Bear sleeping bag, at the foot of my brother's bed when Ma was out too late, beneath stars, beneath rain, wide awake, through an earthquake, beneath the unfamiliar ceilings of friends and lovers all only writing can help me remember.
The best news and happy ending (or unexpected twist if we're talking writing) is that it dawns on me just now, at day 23, how comfortable I've become sleeping on the floor. How easy it is to get up and down. How quickly I fall asleep and how ready I am to rise. Like so many things in the every day details, another reminder that so much life is to be found where and when you least expect it.
So try writing about all the places/times you've slept on the floor. Or sleep on the floor and write about it. Or both. The point is, do both.
