A subtle, but much needed, reprioritizing
Will we always find our way back to what most calls us? Again and again, from what I can tell, we must only listen.
I went to my mother. who gave me this book called Letters To A Young Poet. Rainer Maria Rilke. A fabulous writer. A fellow used to write to him and say: “I want to be a writer. Please read my stuff.” And Rilke says to this guy: “Don't ask me about being a writer. lf when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing, then you're a writer.”
I’m gonna say the same thing to you. If you wake up in the morning and you can't think of anything but singing first, then you're supposed to be a singer, girl.
–Sister Mary Clarence, Sister Act 2
My precious people, I’d forgotten the above quote included a Rilke writing reference, so had to include the whole of it, for the singers and the writers.
That I wish I could share this gorgeous Saturday morning with you.
I fell asleep last night administering a self-reiki session and woke once, bizarrely, drawing something or softly massaging my face (the things we do in sleep!). I placed my hands on the next position on my lower abdomen, too asleep to realize I should have turned off the recurring timer that lets me know when to switch hand positions, and promptly fell asleep again.
When I woke, it had been two total hours (a session usually takes me an hour), I turned it off, used the toilet, fell back to sleep quickly and peacefully, and slept soundly until 8:50 am.
I have been starting and ending my days with a reiki session, but this morning I felt the call to write first before my brain woke too much. And so I didn’t make the bed or brush my teeth! I got dressed, prepared a coffee, and headed up to the deck with my new, ridiculously fat notebook.
And y’all, I have to tell you, the weather has been my absolute ideal.
It’s 67 degrees. The skies are mostly clear but the sun is soft, still filtering in through the trees from the east. There’s a breeze that offers the perfect chill. And, as if that wasn’t pleasure enough, there have been two small squirrels playing on the pines nearest me.
A nice squirrel-related experience after last weekend when Dad moved the fifth-wheel to bring it in for evaluation after a biblical hail storm. When he returned he found he’d knocked two nests off the top: some feathered chicks not yet capable of flying (they did all, I suspect with the help of their mother, hop away eventually, though I couldn’t tell you what happened to them from there) and a nest of baby squirrels Dad thought were only capable of wiggling around.
We were both horrified, of course.
I did not have the opportunity to examine the squirrels so I don’t know what their ages might have been. Dad covered them with the remaining grasses so they weren’t exposed and as the internet suggested we left them. Unfortunately where they were on the property was out of view from any window so I couldn’t monitor their rescue.
All I know is that I went out to check things out for myself and there was one baby bird remaining and, what I assume, was the momma bird losing her shit at me nearby, and the baby squirrels were still moving around under the grasses. Some hours later I saw a small squirrel nearby with a large tuft of grass under its arm who kept a close eye on me, there was no longer movement under the former nest.
I have been much too afraid to look to see if they’re all dead under there.
And if Dad has, he’s not mentioned it, and no wonder given my horrified and accusing reaction to the whole ordeal to begin with (“You MUST always check these things before you go driving away, unnecessarily killing wildlife?!” etc.).
Given the life cycle of squirrels (they’re immobile for up to five weeks and have another six to fourteen weeks in which they struggle to gather food on their own!), it’s unlikely the two, surprisingly loud squirrels, playing near me are from the same litter, but it’s pleasant to think they might be. Or at least that the mother rescued her babies and took them to safety somewhere.
The thing about living here, in the woods, is that there’s so much evidence of impermanence: the changing light from day to day, even to some extent throughout the day (though the weather’s not nearly as dramatic as, say, Ireland’s); the detached tails, murdered bunnies, and random animals and bones the dogs find and bring back to the house; the new growth on the trees and plants that you might miss if you aren’t paying attention, like how our bodies can change without us noticing because we look at them every day (or don’t, as the case may be); and of course, the big seasonal transitions that are so apparent in this part of the world.
I sent myself to the deck to write first thing this morning because I decided that Julia Cameron is probably right: Morning Pages within 45 minutes of waking is optimal. There are a number of reasons why this is an effective strategy: silly, foggy morning brain is proven to be more creative and less judgemental (studies also show that you can get there after a couple of drinks, too, so pick your poison) and I personally have more ideas in the morning.
But most importantly for me right now, turning to writing first, prioritizes it in my brain. By putting meditation and reiki and yoga first (all important, even necessary, practices for me), by the time I’m done, all those ideas spinning around in my brain in the wee hours of the morning, as my little eyes start to open, are less potent, if accessible at all.
Later in the day, my brain is so on and so full of all the nonsense of life and living that I really have to write double the Pages just to get all that out
.
It slowly, and then all at once, occurred to me that having deprioritized writing, even if it was necessary to do so for a time in order to move through some healing, and even though I continued to do daily Pages, material fit for an assay has been harder to come by, distant. So I’ve recommitted.
And not just to Pages, but to expanding my practice.
I’ve built a lot of trust in myself in my Pages practice, but I’ve known for some time that there’s still a sizeable gap between where I am and where I want to be. Namely in my follow-through, especially on bigger projects.
Not only do I have seemingly hundreds of essay drafts and ideas hanging around (not all of which, of course, are necessarily worthy of finishing or working with, but I can barely bring myself back to them to find out), but there are also a couple of half-written book-length projects I’m blocked in finishing.
On my very first day in my very first class at The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Janet Desaulniers told us to recognize our refusals. The worst in capitalism has been imprinted in my bones and I was taught to soldier on, push through, keep going blindly even if everything in my body is screaming at me to stop, rest, and reevaluate, so as I’ve carried this advice with me, I still need reminding of it.
It’s often offered permission to intentionally leave a project and move on to something else (maybe permanently, maybe temporarily), but in this case, I feel further digging is necessary. Are none of these projects ready to be completed? Or is there something else happening here?
Two angles have occurred to me: One) I seem to be in a perpetual pattern of leaving projects half-finished for something new. My neurodivergent brain and my seeking of dopamine and begrudging long projects may be a problem.
So I’m recommitting to a bit more structure in my practice. Re-engaging a system and a workflow. Breaking projects into small bite-size pieces to, hopefully, prevent my brain from becoming overwhelmed by the big picture or all the steps that need to happen to get an idea to a finished piece. And I’m getting clear on each, next, tiny step, written down, in order. “Organize myself,” is the top item on my to do. And, it’s probably too vague to be useful.
Two) I’ve been concerned that I, like many, may fear success, whatever that means in this context. My refusals may not be so much internal resistance to projects not yet ready to be completed, but blocks. So I’ve been doing some clearing on that, because, y’all, I really, very much, like deeply, deeply desire to finish a large project.
I don’t know if it’s just me, but sometimes I wonder if this isn’t important stuff to incorporate into grad programs. Or, even, primary and secondary school? How to get out of our own ways to do the things we most want to do and the easiest systems by which to do them?
I wonder if schools like Naropa and Maharishi School, institutions that interweave somatic movements and mindfulness with traditional study and practice, provide an environment in which students will, even if accidentally, release wounds and traumas that might hold them back otherwise while offering a path forward in their careers.
Would something so monumental even be possible? Dance therapy replaces sport. Mindful meditation and emotional awareness at 1 pm. Nervous System theory at two. Nonviolent communication techniques and practices at 2:30. Trauma-informed education every single day, every single year, for 12 or 13 years, across the whole of the country (and every country?).
And if we’re really, really lucky we educate the parents as well, creating the best possible circumstances for every student to reach adulthood with self-awareness, a resilient nervous system, and mental clarity on who they are and what they want (for now, because hey, life is long), and most importantly, the steps or the next right step to get there, which we cannot possibly predict given how quickly things change in the career sector!
Maths and spelling and stuff? Oh, that’ll fit in, surely.
Sigh. I digress. Watch it. If I’m ever made Queen of the Universe…
Now, I must get on watching these squirrels rabble-rouse.
Sincerely,
Invitation for Reflection:
Is there something you really want to do but can’t seem to get yourself to? Big or small. Write it down on the top of a sheet of paper and then take a moment. Close your eyes, feel your feet on the floor, and take three deep belly breaths, feeling the air reach down into your low back, the bottom of your spine, and slowly, slowly release it through a straw-sized hole in your lips.
Come back to the page and tenderly, compassionately consider your refusal. This is not the time for shame or admonition (though those feelings could be precisely what’s holding you back), this is a time for exploration and gratitude. Maybe this thing you think you want to do isn’t something you actually want to do. Maybe you’re already pushing yourself beyond your limits and what you need is rest. Maybe it’s just not time yet and it’s necessary to intentionally backburner this project and put your full attention elsewhere.
Or, like me, maybe it’s time to shed some old stories and fears. Time to implement more (but gentle) structure.
Then write at the top of a new page: What’s the next right step? And free-write for three pages. You may have to give this a go over a series of days, but it won’t take long before answers start coming out through the pen about a page and a half in.