I have this fantasy life in which I have time to write. I have time enough to write through the bullshit and be able to get down to the truth of the moment.
In my real life, I have time to write– but I have time to write what arrives, as is, just like that. So I write, and often wonder what is underneath that… that thing I just wrote.
What is the longing, the under-story, the backbone, the grounding…
So, kate, what’s your story?
My story in this moment is this: I ache for time to slow. I ache for time to slow so I can expand into myself, so I can ease into the edges, see where I can meet hard limit with flow, see what I can do that is really messy, and find the beauty instead in the fingerprints that I left when I held it up to the light.
I want dappled living, sunlight, shadow, fingertips…myriad tastes in tiny bites… I want to be able to say, wow, look at this, happening, and have the time/energy/intention to really see it, really see it, really really really see it.
So in this moment, I hear music with an underlayer of lawn mower, a percussion of feet on stairs, in this moment I feel my own zing of unwelcome adrenaline as I try to slow time through will alone… and honor my own desire to see my to do list not as a sentence but as a suggestion… in this moment I wiggle my toes on the rough carpet, invite my shoulders to drop, breath to enter, energy to expand out, and my poor eyebrows to unfurrow….
breathing in, peace
breathing out, all that does not serve me
