For months, I’ve been wrestling with wanting more dedicated time for writing. Awaken earlier by alarm, which is not the native inclination of this body? Take a break mid-day to try and concentrate amid bustle? Write in the early evening, forsaking precious time with my sweetheart?
I took a clear look at my daily patterns and noticed that we go to bed around ten, but I rarely sleep between ten and twelve. I lie awake wondering why sleep doesn’t come. I watch the mind-train and listen to B’s peaceful breathing.
I chuckled. Why not use the time to write?
We turn down the heat to fifty-eight at bedtime, so I layered into warm pajamas, my new Christmas bathrobe, socks and slippers, and trundled into my office. It’s a quiet room with a door—very important—at the back of the house. Even the inquisitive squirrel who uses the fence outside the window as a highway can’t distract me at this time of night. She’s probably asleep in her nest. Best of all, no phone interruptions.
I had skimmed over what was right-in-front-of-me-obvious to fuss about missing sleep and not finding time for wordplay. Once again, I had been resisting the natural unfolding of life.
These patterns are so deeply ingrained; we have practiced them for decades. But when a chunk of resistance falls away, ease fills that spot like an old friend returning home.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2014
photo credit: buy this great mug here