brief wondrous life October 29, 2009

I read this the other day and it made me realize two things:

1. I don’t have the tenacity to stick to anything for 10 months, let alone 10 years, and
2. I’m not really a writer or yogi or meditator, if I’m not doing it, if I’m not practicing.

I haven’t been meditating, I haven’t been practicing yoga (much), and I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been practicing. I’m in limbo, I tell myself, I’m still waiting to close on the house, the house that I want so much, I have to make up excuses not to want it. Instead I’ve just been waiting. Waiting for the house with the perfect rooms to write and meditate and do yoga.

Waiting is the opposite of practice. If I’m not practicing, I’m waiting. And there’s never a good reason to wait.

home, finally September 15, 2009

25 days ago I moved into this house, a rental in the perfect location, lots of space and windows and hardwood floors, a place to practice. It was exactly what I wanted.

25 days later I’ve found a house I want to buy, nowhere near here, with smallish rooms but a righteous kitchen. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I wanted.

The house I’m in now is an old house with great bones, but I can’t make it mine. I kept thinking if I owned this place there’s so much I could do with it. I could turn it into something great. I’ve been carrying a paint color card (soothing green tea) for weeks, even though I know I can’t paint. It’s in the lease.

This move never felt right. I saved every box and piece of bubble wrap and I didn’t unpack everything. And what I did unpack I didn’t necessarily put up. I kept waiting. I’ll wait until I’ve cleaned everything. I’ll wait until I’ve lined all the shelves. I’ll wait until pest control comes. I’ll wait until the weekend, no not that one, the holiday weekend, the next one, yeah, that one.  I knew I wasn’t staying.

This house needs someone to love it.  The back room, where I’m writing this, is spacious with windows on three sides. It’s the perfect place for practice: meditation, yoga, writing. But it’s not for me.

I’m not buying because it’s a good investment or a buyer’s market. I’m buying because I want a home of my own. Because that place I can make mine. No in-between place. Something to paint any color I want, even soothing green tea. I think I’ve found home, finally.

Morning Person August 14, 2009

Why am I not writing? Well obviously I’m writing; I’m writing this. But why am I not writing the self help addicts book? I haven’t been working on it lately; the work i’s sporadic and I can’t for the life of me seem to post the reviews of the three books I’ve chosen for the sample chapter. I don’t know why. Well… maybe I do. Fear is probably in the mix. Writing then taking it apart and re-writing. Again and again. The idea of it is daunting, but I don’t want to get this far and then put it down again, and wait another two years to work on it, again.

About six months ago I started to get up at 5:30 to write a novel because I read Walter Mosley’s book, This Year You Write Your Novel. Have you ever read a book that made something seem imminently doable? This is the book. I’ve read writing books before, most of them self help books, but this one was so slim, so direct, that each sentence seemed undeniable. Write every day. Every Day. At least an hour and a half.

When I read that I knew that the only way I could do it was to get up at 5:30am, get some coffee and set a timer for 90 minutes. And that’s what I did. At first it seemed incredibly early, I had to drag myself out of bed. But then the coffee would taste good, and I would write something, the shitty first draft stuff, just basically venting about whatever, but giving people different names and changing their hair color.  I got up every morning without fail and wrote.

A couple of months ago the writing changed so I could finish up the self help addicts book that I had abandoned for two years, but I figured the same rules applied: get up every morning and write.  Now, I’ve let the writing go.

But I still get up early, my eyes still open at about 5:20 in anticipation of starting a new day, even when my mind just wants to hunker down and stay in bed for whatever reason it can think of. Then I make promises to myself. Well I’ll get up now, but I have to meditate and practice yoga or I have to write a post for the blog. This morning I stayed in bed but I clearly wanted to write because I grabbed my journal, leaning on my left, using my arm as a pillow and writing parts of what you just read, writing like I did for years without editing, just the shitty first drafts.