Lazy afternoons and slow evenings are my favorite type of weekend time. Long, languid hours spent picking out what tasks to do. Leisurely walks with the dogs. Overcast skies that turn to sunny shininess then back to overcast. Thinking about what I will conjure up for dinner. What time is the game on? Making time to write in that suspended space of not having to write but simply wanting to. Feeling the separation between day into night—how it envelopes the house slowly as the indoor lights go on. That glow of dusk, that undeniable feeling of sleep coming soon and knowing that sleep will blend into Monday—another week. It all wraps around me and soothes my racey mind. It calms and coddles my restlessness and casts a glowy reflection over things. Most of all, it settles me into the beauty of my routine and reminds me that the small, simple, predictable things are the way toward solace.
Look How Close the Light Seems,
Thelma the Thinker
In my darkest, tangly places I forget about the light. I forget that life is fluid, not stagnant. I forget that all my learning has garnered sweet wisdom. And I forget to raise my head and heart up, in order to find my way forward.
There’s a certain solace I’ve found in the forgetting. There’s a certain cozy ebb and flow I’ve discovered in the familiarity of doubt and shame. The way I linger, floating in that place that keeps me tethered to fear and the far-off, downward stories I tell myself.
But the coziness eventually turns to restlessness and that part of me that forgets that I can recognize my own shadow cast from the sun taps me on the shoulder and reminds me that there are moments in the morning when I’ve never felt more content and there are certain minutes of the day when the light streams in through the window that casts a dazzling sheen across the entire room and my dreams and plans and schemes are things of beauty and all of the forgetting is something to be grateful for because diving in to the forgetting is the only way to remind myself of what is really true.
Rita the Ruminator
The trick for me, then, is to stay in the moment. To hear and see and feel what is happening in the right now, without embellishing the whole mess with my wicked storyline—without my twisted and tainted view.
Were I observing life from a wide and spacious view, I would open my heart in the same capacity and—with that—I would take in just as much opportunity and wonder.
But things don’t always turn out that way and things don’t always reflect my intent—to be here, unencumbered and now. And so I trudge on, mostly untainted by my own thoughts and horror stories about what might happen in the future and what has occurred in the past and grasp and cling and hope for that moment when I am just me, now, in the moment, without anything or anyone to derail or distort me.
Yours In Dreaming Being,
That faint, far off feeling of Spring coming on has always held me in its clutches. Not because I live in a cold war zone winter climate and I’m longing for warmth or sunshine or unencumbered existence, no. I long for Spring because I long for renewal—heartfelt start-overs, forever fresh do it differently’s, newness, different landscapes to observe and an alternate way to be.
It’s not that I dislike my day-to-day way of being. I forge forward and I observe what I do in the Winter, when things are more covert than above ground, and I bide my time until the time when I can bloom. Spring is the thing that makes it so. Spring is the thing that gets my engine revving—eager for the next adventure, the next place, the next project to explore.
In the Winter I hibernate and think. In the Spring I pop up, take aim and shoot, like an arrow that possesses some kind of magical thinking, knowing that now is the time to wake up and make a beautiful mess of things.
It’s the to and fro of life that keeps me interested—sadness and joy, hopefulness and desperation, calm and tumult. I could say that I am on a roller coaster that leads me up and down and down and up through each and every phase of feeling but it would be more accurate to say that I am strapped in on a rocket that catapults me into and out of whatever comes my way.
I only know that the whole big shebang of it waxes and wanes. It comes and goes. It envelopes and then recedes.
As the years have washed over me I’ve found a way to keep my footing. I plunge myself forward, with the confidence of one who conquers or I’ve retreated into darkness and solitude, knowing that eventually I will emerge again, unscathed.
Regardless, I’ve somehow found some kind of quirky rhythm that feeds my spirit and rejuvenates my soul without taking away all the things I’ve worked to cultivate—the way the moon comes and goes—I appear and disappear in a way that maintains my own shaky individuality and I find my way, barely, into the night sky, smiling.
Yours In Inching Forward,