I don’t know what I was waiting for.
A feeling like it was safe?
A belief that I was qualified?
Thinking that I knew enough?
Whatever the reason, I was waiting.
But today I began.
And today I feel strong.
I’m going to come out and say it. Today I started the book. It’s a book I’ve been planning on writing since July 2017 when my ex-husband dropped the bomb that shattered our lives into a million tiny pieces. It’s a book about meditation and self-care. When he presented me with a list of what bothered him in our marriage, my meditation practice was on that list.
This book is my answer. I’m going to share with the world how my meditation practice saved me, and how self-care will save you, whether you engage in self-care through meditation or if you have some other kind of practice that lights you up and gives you a strong sense of who you really are.
After putting off writing the book for so long, tonight something shifted. Something was different. I had the It’s now or never feeling pulsing through my body. So I sat my ass down and started writing it. YAY! 😀 Wish me luck!
Stuck in a thought
I have no idea what to write
I pause, hesitate,
fingers hovering above the keyboard
with nowhere to go.
I step behind the thought.
I see the rest of the world,
I see a candle flickering
I hear my husband snoring,
it may snow tonight.
This life is a mystery,
so much to be discovered.
I might see some of it
if I step out of the prison
of thoughts like
I have no idea what to write.
A deep breath expands me,
I am fulfilled.
I never had to write anything,
I do this because I want to.
Realizing this is freeing enough
to pause and smile.
I have no idea what to write?
This life writes itself
if I can step back
and simply observe
its perfect unfolding.
And then it struck me all of a sudden,
I’m not writing for any particular reason at all…
I’m just writing to write.
I do this night after night
not because I have to
but because I want to.
I don’t have to think about it,
I just do it.
It doesn’t take any willpower at all…
it’s almost like breathing–
it just happens.
And I realized,
ah, I’ve taken the pressure off my writing
to be something amazing,
to be something special,
to be something lovely,
to be popular,
to be successful.
And then I thought,
What if I could take the same pressure
off of myself?
Realizing I can simply relax and have fun
without needing to impress anyone,
I observe many faces at a party.
Loud music, drinks sloshing here and there;
am I the only one not drinking?
There is a blank book
and an invitation to write
Aha! Writing! My drug of choice.
Is my sense of relief
at having something to do
some form of avoidance behavior?
I cover a few pages with drawings
and words, glad to be expressing
rather than imbibing.
At a loss…
for a vision.
It must be time
to go to bed.
I keep getting to this place
as I sit down to write
where I think
But I have nothing to say,
nothing interesting anyway.
What I have to say will be boring.
Why should I bother writing about my normal life?
And then I remember
Life is at once ordinary and extraordinary.
Sometimes the most ordinary of things
provide extraordinary pleasure,
and sometimes it’s our pursuit
of the extraordinary
that deprives us of appreciating
the beautiful ordinariness of our lives.
What determines how we see
are the expectations we bring to this moment.
Therefore, let me cultivate extraordinary perception
and see with new eyes.
Let me see the profound virtue in silence,
I won’t ever again worry
about having nothing to say,
because I’ll know in my heart
that the most important things
need not be said.
I set out to write something witty and brilliant
and the words elude me.
My brain is tired and protests
any probing into its depths
to yank out the perfect word
in some memory bank tucked far away
beneath the piles of laundry in my bedroom
and dishes stacked in the sink.
Ah yes, I remember now,
I don’t have to be good.
I am a human being,
and this is enough.
With the pressure off,
I don’t need to write something witty and brilliant,
I don’t even need to write something passable.
I just need to to write something.
And something is enough.