Beginning Again

The more I stop to think about things, the more I realize that most of what I’ve figured out, I’ve known all along.

I read once that the most important tool for a writer to use frequently is writing. That much seems obvious, right? But most of us that aren’t in the career of writing sit around waiting for our muse to sing, and only then do we bother to type out a few paragraphs. Beyond that, if those few paragraphs aren’t of magnum opus quality we get disappointed and discouraged, and return to sitting around waiting for the muse to come again. I have no way to prove this, but my hunch is that the Hemingways of literature didn’t start out by writing great works; they start out pumping out mediocre writing en masse, the whole while learning and improving.

I was reading upstairs tonight and looked out the window to see a guy practicing Tai Chi in the park across the street. I have been meaning to get back to meditation for weeks now, but there just doesn’t seem to be enough time, or the right time, or the proper place. I’ve been waiting for my meditation muse to come back to me. I thought that once we move and this temporary chaos is behind me that I would have more time, and a better space, and more flexibility to meditate.  But in the meantime I neglect that very powerful element of myself and begin to thin out, becoming vapid within the context of what’s around me.

Right now I am going out for a walk in the forest to slow down, to feel my breathing, to start to reconnect. I’ve missed feeling centered, so right now I will begin again.