Three days ago I spent all day in the act of physically writing. A flood gate opened and I was ready for it. Then Saturday and Sunday and a Monday holiday rolled on and here I am on Tuesday at 3:10pm still fighting my way back to the story at hand. Physical fatigue dictated the day as follows.
Woke, laid in bed like an anvil, crawled out of bed, ate a muffin, wobbled around the house, laid back down again for a deep nap. Woke again. Now I’m getting frustrated. but I know better than to let that happen because getting frustrated, getting angry, crying all takes energy and I need my energy. My job becomes to remain calm.
I feel shut out of the only place where life makes sense. So I sit on the steps waiting to either remember where the key is or have the door open.
I sit in the sun after a second mysterious nap. I have no idea why I am so exhausted. In the sun I make vitamin D and help my efforts to remain calm and optimistic.
I listen to Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert. She talks about the nonnegotiable necessity of NOT putting monetary importance on the goals of writing. So here is what is slowing me down.
I make very little money. I am hoping my all-in efforts to devote every day to writing will eventually provide financial support. It may. And it may not. When I say that- I am not secretly cloaking the comment inside a ‘story’ of my life where I don’t really believe I’ll fail. Financially- it is truly unknown if I will ever make money. But my heart is not agreeing to accept that. I am truly trying to separate my need… my desire to have my work strike gold- But of course I want that.
I don’t think I can get myself to stop wanting that. Why would I want to stop that? Isn’t that a good thing to want? But here in the day-to-day it is getting in my way of really feeling free and safe and at peace with the lugubrious process of writing.
There. I’ve used the word lugubrious.
Is this blog a way to spin the yarn of my imminent success? Is this blog the – I knew her when – illusion that enables me to feel sufficiently romantic about the future to find the patience to focus.
What do I need to focus? When I am not focused I think about money. I just boil in a state of frustration.
Writing may be a metaphysical act of learning how to navigate and overcome frustration. How to shift away from the grips of anger and recognize that engaging the negative emotions personally only distribute resources in a way that results in very little material fiction.
material fiction is what I am after more than the sensations (however honest) of pain, anger, confusion… etc. So when I wake in these states – my job is to minimize their fuel sources, slip under the barbed wire and head back into the meadows.
I have what I need. The day is balmy and bright. The white curtains are blowing with such loveliness. I am not going as fast as I’d like but I have not stopped aiming for the direction even if sometimes the aim was just to be able to stare from a distance at where I want to be. I am here in frustration.
I do not know where to start. I can open the document, endure the threshold of detached confusion that always waits for me when trying to place my attention on large quantities of words.
Once disengaged from the flow of writing the work becomes volumes of words that may or may not hold the same grip as when I wrote them.
I have an exhaustion when I think of what happens next. My thinking is vague, overwhelmed, and needing immediate results. It is my job to guide my attention to something that feels doable. I want to cry but I am too tired to cry. Why am I so exhausted?
The next part of the story needs to develop in a succinct way the political situation around vaulting, and Earth, and it needs to have tension. I want it to have tension. So I am off thinking about this task with what feels like a Jupiter sized desire. It is impossible to look at or experience a Jupiter sized anything all at once. I am aware of a working, a system below the surface that is causing this fatigue. My body and mind know what I am seeking and my soul is out bringing it home to us. That soul searching is an exhausting process. My job is to remain calm so that when my soul returns my body will be rested and ready, not ravaged and tear stained. As much as I’d like to cry, I do not have the resources for it. So I rest. And wait for energy to return.
If I am wait can I really truly rest? What if my job is to learn how to let go of tracking the story, of being in charge of its forward movement, of being the CEO of this company. What if writing is about learning how to really rest by learning how to really let go of a longing which is about learning how to trust that what you are seeking will find its way to you and what you are seeking is not what you think it is. What you are seeking is an end result which you have concluded will equal some metaphysical satisfaction. But you have ascribed a significance to a self-appointed end result and that appointment has limited your understanding of how reality works.
Resting can not involve waiting. I can not be waiting to return to writing because that is only practicing impatience. Resting is truly finding that which is beyond all self-assigned definitions of what I need to approve of myself.
If I do not write inside the story today, will I be unhappy with myself? Such friction is unsupportive and only slows down the business of creative flowing. Laughter comes with joy. intrigue and plot points come from a happy, rested, loved, and fully accepted soul. Being disappointed in my inability to produce some content of supposed value is living in an archaic corporate world- like the one I’m surrounded by. We have – by the Grace of the Great Mystery- the peace, tranquility, and balmy weather to live outside corporate priorities.
There is food, there is water, there is peace enough to feel well with what is.
Some injury to my auric field rings out and wobbles me when I try to push myself to write today. It feels injurious to force myself to work. Where I will not push- I would like to have a serious look at that auric field injury. What is causing the invisible pain, like a clutching violent shyness, as if we were under attack?
Just the frustration of being at a distance from the ship I was previously driving. I’m outside the ship on a rope. The ship is on Drift mode and I need to get the door open, get the space suit off, and get behind the control board. Here we are. This way. Course set.