Travelling Companions

Objects in mirror are braver than they appear.

A spider (I know not what kind, except to call her the brave and crazy kind) built a home on the side-view mirror of my dad’s truck, which I have borrowed for the past month or two. She moved in while we were in Nova Scotia, and came with me – at highway speeds through various weather – all the way to New Brunswick. She’s likely logged 600 kilometres by now.

Her name (to me) is Windy, and she’s a kindred spirit – preferring the open road and rolling adventures to hanging out in the same spot, patiently-passively waiting for her income to come to her. She wants to see the world while she’s still in it – a part of it.

I’ve watched Windy learn to ball herself up when the turbulence gets bad. I’ve seen her duck in behind the mirror, when she needs to feel extra cozy and safe. I’ve seen her charge out into the raging air to secure the beams of her homestead, with no seeming concern for her own well-being – her home being her most important project. Damn the torpedos! She’s a hero among spiders. A legend.

I’ve often wondered where Windy’s gone, when I can’t see her there – if she’s fallen or been thoughtlessly left behind, while my mind is driving elsewhere… but she keeps popping up again, a little sturdier each time.

Once, she went accidentally(?) parasailing from with her web strand while I was driving for coffee. I was shocked at the alarm I felt, seeing her in (apparent) peril; I thought for sure she was a goner, but she’s far stronger than she looks.

I’ve surprised myself at how much I worry when I don’t see Windy safe and secure, at home in her mirror-web. I don’t know where she gets her food, and if she’s found love during our travels together (let me anthropomorphize just a little longer, please), but so far she has survived, and now – rather absurdly – has become a kind of family to me.

Eeek! a spider! Kill it!!

I remember this feeling from when I was younger. Creepy-crawly things are to be destroyed, and despised, and feared. Well, if Windy were of the venomous or destructive or invasive variety, I might consider squishing her quickly to be prudent, perhaps, though still unfortunate. Were she the size of a poodle, I’d give her a wiiiide berth and maybe call the authorities and professionals. If she were the size of this car, we’d all be in trouble.

But she’s not any of those things. I’m a titan to her, and she keeps the bugs that would bite me and eat our beloved plants and flowers at bay. Windy wouldn’t think of harming something so big as me – she’s a bit more sensible than that. And her life is as precious to her (implicitly) as mine is to me.

Can I avoid killing bugs when I walk and when I roll around in this world of all-scales? Of course not. I am an ant colony’s worst nightmare, when I’m tromping about, not paying attention. But that is not my intention, and intention means a great deal.

We live in a world of living beings, each with lives to live. I still eat meat, and I almost never need to. I am a colossal hypocrite. My footprint is far too large, and my road to redemption will likely take this full lifetime – maybe many more.

Perhaps one day, I will get to be a spider too, clinging tenaciously to my chosen home, trusting in the world around me to let me have a short life of my very own, in my very own, personal way.

Windy has decided to go wandering somewhere. I worry when I start up the truck that I might leave her behind, in this foreign land, but then of course nothing lasts forever. We will be travelling companions for a while, and then we’ll go our separate ways, in this world, or another.

Love the lives that live around you – whether very big or very small. How you love these things is how you grow your compassion, which starts as a seed – and its size knows no bounds.

xo

#Our Best Feet

Our best science, art, aspirations, and potential are also our best feet, put forward for the Universe’s kind consideration.

Why should we be permitted to continue on, upon this planet, but for these beautiful feet? We are at a crossroads – a checkpoint.

Papers, please, and thank you.

#[In Pursuit of] Resting Rest Face

I started to write something once, and before I knew it, I had succeeded in writing the start of something.

Of course it had more-than-once occurred to me that I often started somethings, and that it was the completion of somethings that most mattered to me once – Once-Upon-So-Many-a-Times before, when I had been the starter of all those said things.

The Past has always implored the Future to finish what it is(was) just about to start – hoping even then that it would still someday have the same heart.

And then there were (and still are) the ever-issues of endings, pauses, phases, branches, and even abandonments… and when to define and then introduce one or more of those.

It went on and on, and still goes.

Now, practice is imperfect, but if you were to ask me how I might-maybe train this brain to see things through to tidy conclusions of all those sundry kinds aforementioned and others, I may well say that one sure way to keep completing more completions is to start some things short and to the point from the beginning (or, at least, some early part of the too-muddled middle), so as to end in a firm period, finally. One for reflection, at best.

And so, though I hardly knew then and hardlier know now why I finally began to start-to-write this particular thing, I will decide and declare it now to be finally done, and then count it as one more small thing I have somehow still humbly won.

Barest Bones

I just crawled across the finish line of my nearly-almost-ended week. Gas tank is a bit dry, I have to say… but the trunk is full of dreams and nonsense nonetheless.

Eyelids heavy. Too many channels of input in this last long while, and my head is ringing. “I need a vacation” threatens to pop un-checked from my word-hole at any moment. I purse my lips in grim and flagging determination. Somebody hand me some duct tape.

No, I do not need a vacation – but I could very likely use one. I could use what I probably need. Present circumstances in the world make this The Wrong Thing to Say.

Staying low-energy for days at a stretch doesn’t count, it turns out, as taking a proper rest, where the mind (so much less efficient when made of carbon than of silicon) can have human-scaled time to recharge and then re-mind. Getting excited about new things also takes energy! Even that exclamation point felt like it took calories.

Staying effective and productive feels sometimes like a balancing act between focusing with great passion, and then finally letting the un-focus properly and fully happen. “Diminishing returns” is not a myth, I’m told. The principle applies within a pandemic, as well as without.

My favourite parts of the day are often when I’m free-styling the creative learning, and then again when I’m falling asleep. Everything else can at these times feel like a kind of valley between those peaks. To admit this publicly is to invite suggestions that I should feel differently than I feel that I feel – but this is how I feel that I feel, and so that is what these words reveal.

As for you other folk, in whatever state you might find yourself: You have a right to your feels too. Here’s a TGIF from me, then, to you.

Lettered Betters, Part I

Well, hello again, Internet of Things. I have for a while wanted to use this blog and its tiny leverage to re-broadcast Good and Timely Words from completely other brains than mine, and in so doing act more as the aspiring amplifier that I am trying to be.

I am often-always receiving input, and then doing some work on all of that, and then putting things out there in different terms.

Sometimes, this means shouting my own thoughts into the Great Wind of Gathering, Buffety Opinion, and then leaning in to hear if it perchance met some other timely ear. I throw these bottles and search for meaning in the bottles that might now and then come back.

And so on into other metaphors. I like to type things.

Today though, I want to cut-and-paste wholesale something entirely not written by me at all – this bottled message washed up on the shores of my inbox at just the right time, when I needed to hear these words in just this way.

And so I don’t need to change them, re-synthesize, or rearrange them; they are perfect to me just as they are, and I wish now to pass them on to you.

The following words are posted here with kind permission by their author, Zat Rana (https://zatrana.com/), and are NOT released under this blog’s open-source license.


Thinking Better, Together

Today, I want to talk a little about chaos, order, and opportunity.

Ilya Prigogine was a Belgian chemist who won the Nobel Prize in 1977. His big contribution was the study of what he called dissipative structures. Let me simplify.

There are two systems we commonly study in nature. The first are closed systems and the second are open systems. (There are also isolated systems, but we’ll ignore those for our purposes.) When you cook something in a pan with a lid on, you’ve created a closed system. The human body, however, is an open system. In the first, matter is not exchanged with the environment; in the second, it is.

The human body absorbs energy from the environment and uses it to maintain itself and function. Over time, in doing that, it learns to respond to that energy in a certain way. It finds its equilibrium – an ordered balance.

Now, if the human body was a permanently closed system, it would simply stay in this equilibrium. But given that the body interacts with all sorts of environments in different ways, at different times, its order is eventually disrupted. If the external environment is too different, we often have to shift gears.

Last week, I spoke about cultural moods, and how due to our interconnectedness, the external world can influence us in really big ways. Other people’s emotions can become our emotions, and when that momentum is strong, it’s sometimes very hard to tell the difference between the collective cultural mood and our own states. That’s essentially one way the external environment shifts us out of equilibrium.

Now any living system, like the human body, tries to minimize its energy use, and that’s why it reaches towards equilibrium. That’s what both our mental and physical habits are for. Under usual circumstances, our environment is pretty similar, whether that be at home or at the office, and we have an arsenal of habits to deal with these environments. On most days, I don’t think about going to the gym or brushing my teeth. I just do it. But what happens if my usual environment suddenly becomes chaotic and unpredictable?

This is where Prigogine’s dissipative structures come in. In finding its equilibrium, our body orders itself in the most effective way relative to the environment. It learns to harmonize itself with a predictable world. But if the world around me suddenly becomes chaotic, then at some point, my body shifts away from that equilibrium. In my day to day life, I’m quite calm. But if I was suddenly, I don’t know, thrown into jail tomorrow for the next few years, this would likely push me into a far-from-equilibrium state of chaos for a while.

Now, of course, order is preferable to chaos for most of us. But one thing that Prigogine hypothesized was that, in states of turbulent chaos, many systems tend to self-organize to form a new structure. They essentially undergo a paradigm shift away from the old equilibrium towards a new one and that then becomes their normal. Essentially, a new, evolved order emerges out of chaos.

As I write this, most of us are quarantined. Some of us are mildly inconvenienced; others have been dealt a far worse hand. Either way, the past month has been a month of high-density environmental chaos. But the silver lining, I think, is that within this chaos lies a lot of opportunity. I don’t know how much the world will change as a result of this, but what I do know is that new patterns are emerging around us, and these patterns will form the foundation for many new beginnings. It may take a while, but sooner or later, a new order of some kind will emerge.

Even beyond this, I think we’re living in very interesting times right now. If I had to guess, I’d say that the next decade in general will be one of a lot of change and uncertainty. And although that’s scary to many people, the approach should really be one of preparation and curiosity. Order invites chaos just as chaos invites order. And the best any of us can do is hope for the right kind of chaos.

Another point that Prigogine made was that this kind of chaos is what gives the arrow of time its irreversibility. In classical dynamics or the physics of Newton, there is no reason time shouldn’t be reversible, but when we undergo these paradigm shifts in chaotic thermodynamic systems, the future is actually, meaningfully different from the past. Progress, in a way, becomes real.

This makes sense in our own lives, too. When we hover around a single point of order or equilibrium, we are living in a cycle of habits. Days pass, sure, but it’s all the same. It blends together. But growth only happens when there is a notable change. When we cross a point of no return, the future brims with potentiality in a way that it didn’t before. And that makes it come alive in a way that it didn’t before.

That’s it. I’m sending you my best wishes. As always, thoughts and criticisms are more than welcome, too.


Talk soon,


Zat Rana


Thank you for your words, Zat! 🙂

(Thinking Better, Together, by author Zat Rana)

All Those Other Selves to Whom We Selfishly Owe Our Selfless Service

Cleaning up my drafty drawers is a losing case. I draft at quite-thrice the speed in which I succeed to complete (that impossible feat).

But here’s another swing at that Thing. Reading this now, I can’t really say where I was, or where I thought I might be going, with any or all of this.

Except… except in knowing what I know about those family, friends, and strangers I owe… well, I know that I owe it to myself to press Publish on this, our word.

And then hope that its meaning be somewhere, by somebody, heard.


This mid-week thought; not fully formed, but needing to poke itself through, so I can move on with something most entirely new.

The Issue
I can’t draw a proper ring around all of the people in this whole wide world to whom I owe my fullest efforts and very best-est of intentions, in every waking moment that I wish to make truly matter.

When I think about this for even just a wee bit, the area of that ring grows far too large, and much, much too fast.

Query
Where do the limits of my responsibilities lie? (Or is it lay? Without constant Google, might I ever comfortably say?)

Casting Nets
Certainly my sphere of responsibility (it has gained a new dimension already, you see?) encompasses those to whom I’ve been already introduced, through fate. I certainly owe them my best effort, as they’re already Here – and I might as well owe it, with them still being There.

Then that blessed, accursed sphere might well enfold those others yet unknown, but for whom my action or inaction or words or silence might still make of their day something somewhat or very much more, or else break it into lesser pieces and chances than it even was broken into before… and in spite of my not ever knowing that I had done or not-done any such thing.

Hypothesis
Too full of my own perceived importance, perhaps, to properly gauge the full effect of my cause? Careful, Mike… you really can’t see where the will of your wake will sometimes soon-or-later break.

Complication!
And what of all the others beyond even that, the outermost shell? The ones far removed from this idle course, and safely escaped from its rippling past, beyond the visible wash of these wanderings and blunderings – my puppeted wonderings?

The butterflies of all those many motions and un-motions, like those of every other one, at every distance out: background effect for the billions of the rest of Us. Can we ever be fully off the hook, however far out and away we may bother to look?

Conclusion [Far-Gone]
Choosing what to do with each part of your day can come down to the learned-and-automatic; or the sensibly pragmatic; or the doggedly dogmatic; or the errantly erratic, or even the overtly dramatic!

I ran out of attic.

I’m nearly done with the furtively rhyming, for at least some proportion of my misfortunate timing… But:

I would still wish to know
to whom and for why
my efforts I owe.

Grabbing @ the Wheel

Am I here to steer, or am I here to row –
by what means and measures am I meant to know?


Searching for the best things I could be doing with my time has resulted in my going around in circles, and filling up another sketchbook with notes I can now only partially decipher.

Prayer only takes you so far, as does trying to interpret dreams, and attempting to follow inklings and inspirations – these things all curiously fade over the course of the days of hours wherein we inhabit our normal selves.

I had a dream last night that I remembered portions of. If I’m savvy during the waking up, I can rethink the dream and keep some part of it to ponder during the day, at least until it once again fades away.

In this dream, I was outdoors, in a quilted, colourful countryside. There was a lion laying about somewhere close; I was aware of it, and moving away, doing the math about how quickly I might need to run, and then how long I would need to rest by walking swiftly, in between sprints, so that I might keep ahead of it.

As though I could keep ahead of a hungry lion on foot. How hungry it was, I can’t say – I didn’t stop to find out.

I moved toward a tree line, with no other option in mind. Between myself and the trees lay some scrub, tall grass, and brambles. As I reached it, I knew this is where the lion would take me, if she or he wanted to.

And then at once I was aloft – carried by a balloon, drifting off the landscape, safe from one danger, and increasingly concerned with the danger of my newfound altitude. My safety had become my peril – just like that.

Everything leads to a new danger, when you are so used to being threatened by things in your own mind.

And then I gained agency, in an odd way. I still struggle with how this worked – I can’t recreate the timeline of events so that it makes sense – but this is how dreams do.

As I grew anxious about gaining height, I gained more height. As I became distracted by that effect – the connection between my fear of flying, and my success at achieving air – I began to descend, and my fear was replaced by disappointment at returning to Earth.

I wanted to fly, but only the fear of it allowed me to.

After a few moments of rising up and then descending – of tapping into the discomfort that kept me aloft, and struggling with the distraction that brought me back down to Earth – I had figured it out, and was surprised and pleased at the same time. We all enjoy a good flying dream, and I was having one of those.

I found a city, and I aimed for a rooftop, and when I landed on it, satisfied with my progress, I let the balloon go, with gratitude. I felt it deserved its own freedom, and to follow its own path. It hovered a moment, as though uncertain whether it should go or stay – and then it went on its way.

I knew somehow that I could find or make or receive another balloon for flying, whenever I needed it. In my dream, I didn’t doubt this for a moment.

I’d like to say I continued to dream my way toward some kind of greater gifts and powers and wisdom, but actually I just started snooping around in somebody’s apartment, like an uncommon burglar, looking for mysteries and adventure.

That last part I’m little less pleased with and proud of. I should have knocked first, and instead asked if they might need any help. If I’m given the choice next time, I most certainly probably will do just that.

Perfectly Ripped Pages

Now here we go.

I was looking for some progress to make on my Blog Thing this evening (being stuck inside, imagining Zombies emerging from the treeline at any time, and what household items I might use to fend them off when they do) and I found this post among my too-many draft posts.

This draft post had only a title to it, and not a single other word:

Perfectly Ripped Pages

What could I have meant to write here, I wonder, whenever I first drafted that, and that alone? Now I’m sure I’ll never know… but now I have one less Thing drafted, and one more Thing posted. That’s perfect enough for now.


GUEST POST HERE
Length: 200-800 WORDS
Title: Perfectly Ripped Pages
Author: ____________________ (first-come, first-serve)

An Hour and Change for This Almighty God

Re-Being Christian, Part IV

I’m transitioning from being a friendly, drifting Agnostic to being an earnest and fretful Believer. I’m wrestling with Christian faith and for the record that comes with a fair amount of thinking about things. Who knew? Did you?

What can I say about the journey so far? I have been praying a lot, reading more, and going to church with greater consistency – even to annual meetings, and we all know how boring those can be. Depending on whom you ask, I’m either on the right track, or else completely wasting my time as well as endangering my brain.

I spend a lot of time wondering if I’m good enough. I have been telling myself that I must be, because I would recommend everyone I know, and a very many I’ve never even met – all of whom are nonetheless imperfect in their own way – to God’s good graces. And that is no small thing.

I can’t hold myself to a different standard just because I’m not other people. I am a member of those other people’s other people, after all. If I am to hope for real peace in my life, and a general forgiveness for my sundry daily shortcomings, I should extend that peace and forgiveness to others, and then make sure to count myself among them.

My rational mind, in this endeavour to get back to feeling faith as an adult who has been told a bit too much at times, keeps looking for an enemy. It sees straw men everywhere, in the forms of how faith became religion, and then was used to justify prejudices and atrocities and crimes and things. Church is bad, m’kay? This is what a lot of us now say.

I could join in and beat the stuffing out of those giant straw men, but others have them quite covered, so I’ll move on and then hopefully forward. The same trick after all has been done many times with arguably good philosophical ideals that led to political theories, and then on to power structures, run by power-hungry people, and then all the fighting about who has the better structure to acquire and wield that power – as though that’s where the conversation had intended to go from the beginning. No, that’s where we made it go. There was a seed idea, once. The planting is often the problem. Finding good and common ground.

Careful of the babies you might toss out with your bathwater, is what my conscience sometimes says, when I have become a bit black-and-white judgey. There is nothing wrong with having an ideal- whether it be spiritual or political, embodied in a young person in the desert or a true statement or a keen observation made over coffee – but never forget how quickly we (Humans) can take something good and make it thoroughly not-so.

Hence the daily vigil against my own worst tendencies.

I wake up most mornings slightly angry with myself and the world, if you want to know the truth. Anger of course starts with fear (thank you Master Yoda), and that can all lead to the Dark Side, left unchecked. Pretty simple pneumonic to start with and then stick to.

I am afraid of losing our house; I am afraid of losing my job; I am afraid of losing my health; I am afraid of losing my loved ones to sickness and age; I am afraid of not making it through the narrow gate; I am afraid of wasting my gifts on sloth and indecision and a fondness for shiny new ideas; I am afraid of this burning in Hell for eternity thing some Christians like to consider an indelible part of the story of God’s eternal love. I am afraid of getting cancer. I am afraid of misunderstanding as well as being misunderstood. I am afraid of misspeaking. I am afraid of saying too little, too late.

If fear leads to anger then by my reckoning I must be a pretty angry man. And yet, I go through most days as though everything is fine, except it often is not. I smell a fish somewhere.

Here is what I know about this generalized anger I carry around: it is not justified, but just created in the crucible of a frightened life. I procrastinate my way into problems, and sloth myself around once in them, and then I deflect blame for my unsettling circumstances onto others, unconsciously or otherwise. Others have never really harmed me – I own that job most completely. Go away – I got this.

Some time ago, when I had finally gotten sufficiently sick of expecting myself to be my own rock – that is, when I realized that I couldn’t be that anymore than I could manage to pick myself up off the very ground I’d need under me in order to do it – I walked myself back into a church.

I had done this through practice runs in the past – walking into random churches. I wrestled at first with denominational ignorance. As a Catholic, would I be allowed to attend, or even enter, an Anglican church? Weren’t we at war with one another, somewhere in Ireland, or was that just an Irish thing? Will there be little breads there? Will I be permitted to take one? Would the Protestants be able to smell the Catholic fear on me? Could they do that?

Well these were all certainly questions. I had never been told much about other Christians, as a Catholic, after all. I knew about non-Catholicism by virtue of knowing about Catholicism. I assumed Other Christians also prayed to God, but had different ways of doing so that we must not have been in entire agreement about. I knew there were non-Christians too who believed in [G/g]od(s). I assumed they were like me in some ways, but not in others. Beyond that, I knew nothing really, and didn’t much think to ask. I decided instead in my twenties to just start opening doors whenever I felt that I needed to check in with God, whom I was otherwise on a break from, exploring life as a novice non-believer.

Can you believe that? What do you believe?

I have never really, really doubted that God exists, and so I have managed to be a terrible atheist for a while, and I have no idea what sort of Agnostic I’ve been for other whiles, since I can’t decide what Agnosticism is (should I even capitalize it, and would it want me to?), beyond seeing it as a desire to avoid commitment on the issue of Why We Are Here. I can relate to this, but the fence is no longer a comfortable place to sit, for some reason. I have been sitting too long.

I could follow trends and embrace another culture’s faith tradition, in the notion that mine is old and worn and therefore wrong, and the grass is always greener, you know.

I have no issue with that if that’s where you wish to go. We’re all born somewhere, but who is to say if any of us were born into the place we really belong? Maybe this Life is a path-finding exercise. In fact, I’m certain it is. We all come here to begin finding our way home. Some of us might feel we landed on the wrong continent, or in the wrong time, or in the wrong body. Some of us no doubt feel as though we belong among the stars, and the animals here would be better off without us. We’ve certainly done some things.

I have no idea where you or I are meant to end up.

So I did some yoga, and tried some meditation. I read some books about mindfulness, and other things. I tried therapy, via a few therapists. I took medication. And I understood that all of it was potentially valuable to any given person at some particular points along the way. I could use more exposure to how others in other places contend with the questions and concerns and angers and fears that I do, certainly. So I went out and tried a sampler plate.

But I was born into Christianity – why not continue from where I was, once?

I don’t feel like a Buddhist who was accidentally born a Christian. I don’t feel like a Muslim who was accidentally born a Christian either. I don’t feel accidentally born, or randomly shuffled into the wrong skin or place or time. I think I am where I should be, and in what I should be. I can’t speak for anybody else – maybe I’m wrong about me, or just happened to land close to where I was supposed to wander, completely by accident, and so am not looking for radical abandonment of my own history. Not without a proper and thorough examination, in any case.

Sometimes, when I consider what God might be – if She or He can even be described in human terms – I imagine They are a point in space where truth is. Not space in a conventional sense, but a spiritual space. A source of truth, a source of light. Where Hope must come from. Where Love is to be found. Is it Out There or In Here? Everywhere, maybe between our very atoms? The wrong question for a 3-dimensional mind to attempt to answer with 3-dimensional thinking, I’m thinking.

If I am within the Christian sphere, I am looking for this point of truth and light and hope and love through a lens and from a direction and from a point of view and from a heritage and a tradition that is different than that employed by a person coming from elsewheres in these other things. I accept that their truth, and their own faith journey (whatever they have faith in) is their own.

Truth then in this model is located in a place that can be viewed from different directions, and might therefore have as many different faces and facets as there are directions to seek it from. It must appear different to different people, since none of us occupy the same Here and Now – for me to claim to know truth as it appears standing in your shoes is for me to claim we are the very same, or that truth is exceptionally flat, or something. I don’t think one Human life and one Human body are sufficient to see God in its totality.

So as a Christian, I choose to keep looking, and then asking my nearest neigbours – some of whom are Christian too and some of whom are certainly not – how best to better look. I am learning as I look around that Christianity, although certainly not the only game in town, is a bundle of thoughts, intentions, and contradictions on its own, more than enough to fill up a lifetime of seeking and learning – and so a decent source of inspiration, if nothing more, for a blogger earnestly searching for something to say, that might make a difference in somebody’s else’s day.

In the Weekly Thick, a Pregnant Pause Comes Mighty Quick

Moments when I feel as though I have no time to write – no time to continue this thing I once began – are often precisely the moments when I should.

I know this, because I have read about sticking with things and applying oneself and such in various places, and it makes good sense. Still, sometimes I forget to keep walking. I am always walking elsewhere of course, but in between one set of steps I can fit another. I can fit these.

I took a week(ish)-long sort-of break from WordPress the other day, to see what minor mischief that might cause in my daily routine. I liked the break, to be honest – it reminded me of another break from other social media I took a while ago.

I don’t remember what I did with all of those many reclaimed minutes from this past week-and-change, but some portion of them was spent better considering the words and images of others, and so I wrote a post about some of those, which led to an interesting conversation with the blogger who inspired that post, and that made me think all anew about what I was doing here in the first place.

I can’t say much has changed yet, except I still seem to be enjoying a partial break from daily blogging. I have other things to write, like proposals and plans and emails, and also of course blog posts, but with more proofreading.

I find it both necessary and also challenging to read in proper proportion to how much I wish to (or feel as though I should) write. Do you feel that way too at times?

Writing every day is enjoyable, but when it uses up nearly all of my personal I/O time and space, I admit I begin to feel a bit like I’m getting too caught up in my own concerns. I want to write things that matter more to people who aren’t me. I also want to grow as a person – a thing I hear is worth trying now and then. I also want to practice listening. I want a lot of things. More Things, please…

I admit I’m having a bit of a writer’s-blocky week since I cut my own momentum the other day, and this post is dulling me out a bit, but I know I’ll get back on track; I just need to shimmy into some new routines and keep typey-typing my way to Success and Fulfillment.

This is essentially a dispatch about nothing terribly new, I know. I am trying to keep the rust off of my words.