I just want to be sure that I'm showing up for the right things, for what matters.
What I mean is, when I've immersed myself in my writing, I've improved as a writer. I want to show up for that again in a focused way, regularly, without a lot of fuss.
I don't fuss about brushing my teeth or making coffee; if this becomes woven into my everyday once again, perhaps the expectations will settle. At the moment, I am standing outside the writing.
Like anyone else, I've become quite skilled at the the things that I attend to. I show up for certain podcasts or authors or spiritual practices, and they enrich my life. On a more mundane scale, I am an ace with the tweezers. I show up, in front of a well-lit window, to tweeze stray hairs. It's a funny image, I know, but it's an apt one.
What am I devoted to? Or no, that's dramatic language. I don't want to romanticize the making.
What do I attend to? Attention creates reality: That make sense to me. What I attend to shapes my day. I spend a lot of time in anticipation, girding my loins, preparing, being at the ready, in this ready-to-spring position.
Reverting to any other pose feels dangerous. How do I unravel that? How do I correct this thinking, this assumption, this instinct?
Take attendance. Here. Here. Here.
This was the sun flickering on the south wall of the living room on a recent evening. I felt pierced and tender.