doing the do

I am baking medicinal and procrastinating brownies.
Here to say: brownies help.
But they do not take the place of Doing the good Do.
Not necessarily work or play, but the thing that is good.

For me, maybe, 5 minutes of ab exercises (ha ha ha)
or
a cup of tea (YES)
and maybe a moment of writing (YES PLEASE)
and

see what I did there? off to write.
and then
celebrate with a brownie.
and tea.

Start small. Continue.

Showing up here, just showing up, feels kind of radical. Like I am both returning home and striking out on a new adventure.

A new book is trying to push its way through me, and I am really excited, but also resisting the opportunities to write.

I do almost anything else.

I've been thinking a lot about procrastination of this kind, the kind that is under the guise of keeping us safe when really, it is keeping us from becoming more fully whole, more wholly full. More holyful. More.
And
while I watch this with compassion, this procrastination, I am also witnessing with the curiosity of what Can I do?

So, I took out a piece of paper and wrote a list.
Then I opened a word document and wrote the beginning of a beginning of an intro.

And I no longer have to face a blank anything. I need only continue.

connecting

So there's this thing that happens in winter. I go inward, fast and deep. And I have to remind myself, over and over and over, to come up for air, reconnect with what is, be here now.
Today, the wind is blowing hard and the noises keep bringing me back to here and now in a way that is not synchronized with my natural rhythm and I am feeling jangly even while I am trying to embrace it. These past months I have become more and more sensitive to sensory input, feel flooded easily by a lot by noise and motion, which is pure insanity in a tiny house filled with a fabulous and interactive 5 year old and a puppy and a cat the puppy wants to bite.
So I am surfing the edges these days, trying to find the balance between enough and too much. Trying to learn to ask for what I need without apology.  Why is this so hard?
Why do I say Sorry so much? What if I just say, this is what is for me.
The Sorry expects it to be a bother for other folks. But what if it isn't? What if I am teaching them to be bothered by punctuating moments with Sorry?

Work is calling and I need to get back to it. But I wanted to stop in and connect, surfacing for a moment on my own, following my own rhythm. Pausing to look at the way the late sunlight lies across the snow.

battle scars

So I don't know if I posted about this or not, but last winter when my belly suddenly was sticking out (I guess my summer-of-pilates expired rather abruptly), Della was telling people we were expecting a baby. Two (much younger than I am) friends were expecting at the time, so it was natural for her to be trying that on, but for me it was thorny painful horribleness as folks came up to me faces softened with the happy news, and I had to say No no no, this is just me. just me and my belly.

Now Della puts her hands on my belly and says, I wish your eggs weren't so old.

Me too, love.
me too.