The air slowly takes off its winter jacket, draping a shawl of spring around its shaking-off-slumber shoulders. Birdsong emanates from the trees like their sister-leaves emerging from limbs that promise to stand stark against the sky no longer… Soon… I hear a whisper.
It is peaceful. I am peaceful.
Not so long ago, I would have fought this day. I would have forced myself to be productive, creative. A day must not be wasted, I would think. And my guilt and fear of wasting time would compete with my passion — one a taskmaster, the other, wings.
Not so long ago, I would force myself into action, ignoring the deeper wisdom in me telling me to slow down.
Breath, it says, or whatever you write is going to suck. I would come back to my writing after ignoring this warning, and the deeper wisdom was always right.
I can’t bypass recovering, renewing myself like I used to, or at least, used to think I could.
But today, instead of fighting it, I give myself what I need — light reading and napping, watching a couple episodes of my favorite show and napping, eating good food, drinking comforting tea, and napping. Returning to work has been good, but it’s also been taxing to me. I need to take care of myself mindfully.
I would never have been able to do this before.
Not so long ago, I would have been chagrined to “waste” this day not creating.
Tomorrow, I will reclaim action and write like a madwoman. I’m certain of it. That’s my normal. I will reclaim my story telling, my song writing. Passion will have its opportunity to propel me without the weight of guilt or fear, because I will be able to show up.
Even in the wildest rivers — the very epitome of movement — there is a sigh of water that breaths itself under tree lined inlets and along shallow shores. In this way the river rests.
So, I will take pleasure and rest from sitting next to an open door, watching my favorite color and time, the in-between of dusk, appear before my eyes, touching me with cool fingers, filling my senses with the smell of coming night. There is no hurry.
The sun will set and I will dream.
And when I awake, my words will find their way through pen and tap of keys to me, and the river will continue her way to the sea.
Demian
~ Keeping the Dream