A friend of mine once said that this isn't for the faint of heart. No, it probably isn't...
I suffered childhood trauma, but grew up in a loving, middle-class household. Other than a little hiccup in eighth grade, my life shouldn't have been any different than anyone else. In many respects I suppose it isn't.
Somewhere around 2007 I was diagnosed with Dysthymia, a low lying but chronic form of depression. In essence, it meant that I would always live at a level of contentment just slightly lower than someone else. For the most part the diagnosis was a relief. It gave me something to rally around, something tangible to fight against. But of course there's a bit of me under the surface, that silent bit that holds so much sway, that figures I'm simply flawed.
So in light of all of this, I think a lot. I wonder about ways to fix myself. I wonder about what I can do to be a better person. I wonder how I can place myself into a world that feels foreign to me, how I can convince others that I'm just like them. I question why I should get out of bed.
I question why I should get out of bed.
And that's the point of 20 More Minutes. This practice started for me a number of years ago. Even on my best days, sometimes I simply don't feel like doing anything. I should be running. I should be riding. I should be writing. These three activities are close to my heart, I care about them and they bring me fantastic amounts of joy. I know I'm being good to myself when I do them, and since I live in amazing mountain country, every time I get outside into the forests and the mountains I get a chance to reset myself, to erase the mire of whatever else I'm dealing with.
Start by taking 20 minutes out of your day. Leave your phone at the office or at home, and do something for yourself.
That's why you should get out of bed.
When the fires started they started in the nice houses of Kaleden, a small brush fire lit by a homeowner in the kindling dry month of July that spread up and over the neighboring hills, carried along by the grasses of the grassfields dry and brown and engulfing a home nearby, flattening that home to…Read More
I have no poetry anymore, nothing to follow my footsteps from coffee shop to coffee shop to the Wordsworth bookstore downtown, not even a downtown really. No fluidity, nothing staggered. I used to own some stuff by BP Nichol and stu-stu-stuttered when I wrote and when I walked thinking about words and the sounds of…Read More
At the end of the road and the end of the driveway and then further into the bush and further along again along the trail that passed the cabins on the south side of the lake and then just beyond the ruins of the cabin around which so many ghost stories began, William and the…Read More