I’ve been thinking about ease, about changing my one little word (which I have yet to write about here), about cold and seasons and God and creativity.
But mostly I’ve been focused on getting enough sleep, drinking enough water, running my miles and staying leveled… not doing anything to tip the scales, to allow the demands of work to take me away from myself.
Wasn’t sure what to write about tonight and then remembered I’d marked this passage in the book I’m reading – Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott – where she recaps advice a priest gave her when she was considering an abortion:
“Get quiet for a moment, and then think about having the abortion: if you feel a deep secret sense of relief, pay attention to that. But if you feel deeply grieved at the thought of it, listen to that”
What a perfect way to describe our own ability to choose, to listen, to trust the inner guide.
And then this yesterday in The Right To Write by Julia Cameron:
Practice means what it says: writing is something to be done over and over, something that improves through the repetitive doing but that needs not be done perfectly… Consistency is the key to mastering the instrument that is you.
You, the writer, are a spiritual instrument. If you allow yourself to write consistently, you will become more and more finely tuned. You will become more and more fluid and expressive. As you become more fluid and expressive, you will become more vibrant, more vital, more alive.
I’ve been thinking about repetitive actions, the daily happenings, the differences within the sameness. Rituals. The idea that we’re all stalking our lives like animals, thinking it’s something to take down, eat alive, thrash about. Or we’re so dejected, we don’t even bother engaging. So disappointed that adulthood is just more laundry, more email, more snow.
But I’m learning to see the immense magic in all of this – how I want to take a photo of every freaking palm tree against a blue sky every.single.morning. How I want to show you my boots next to a patch of ice or aligned with a parking spot marked with my favorite number. How I spend every morning the same way – wake up, write, feed the dog, run, shower, eat… and I have yet to tire of this.
Instead it’s these rituals that keep me going when the pressure of work is on, or when the push and pull of days ruffle my feathers.
Tonight I called a good friend. She was in tears, dealing with the grief of losing a mentor, and talking about how it just makes everything so much more real. That we’re only here for such a short time. That the socks on the floor, or the dirty dishes aren’t really that big a deal.
That the ice I stood next to yesterday may be the only ice this year.
And I am so grateful to be in a head-space where I can fully appreciate these moments. That I could show up to support one friend last night and another today. That I can kiss my husband. That I can have my sister snuggled on the couch with my dog.
And yet my heart aches for the impermanence of it all. For the season changes, for the growing older, for the books read and unread.
There isn’t enough time, I keep thinking, over and over again.
I need you so much closer – Death Cab for Cutie