Morning solitude is a way of life for me. Like breathing, it's a must. While the house sleeps and my beloveds are still, I get to tend to my own self without the distractions or requests of others. I spend time meditating in stillness and I feel energy coursing through my veins. I listen closely to what is happening just below the surface. This is nourishment for me and an everyday non-negotiable by which I operate. In addition to the soul-nourishing, the early morning often finds me physically-nourishing my self with regular exercise and again, this is a non-negotiable most days of the week. I've learned the ways and importance of self-care.
For me, these days are about less forcing and pushing and shoving, and more about gentleness and kindness and caring. What I don't do, though, is take these fingers to the keyboard often enough. While I hear my own heart and try to notice the ways she leaves her prints on the world, there's a certain something that stirs as I allow myself to sing through words that aren't interrupted by the thoughts and perspectives of another. I've kept quiet and still in this space for far too long.
So much has been captivating my attention these days; so much goodness that I am often so overwhelmed with gratitude that I can barely even utter a sound. I'm also nearly bursting with excitement at the possibilities that I don't even know exist. There's a readiness for something different and while I am anxious to get there already, I'm not sure exactly what or where it is that I'm anxious to actually get to already.
After living for so many years with a constant need to know what way I should go and what I should do and what I should say and what I should feel . . . it's time that I ask myself what it is that I actually want.
It's remarkable how the very question makes me feel frozen-solid and mud-stuck at the same time. It's as though I can see clear through the ice to the glob of mud that encases my boots. When I get through the thawing, there will still be a muckiness to slog through, which feels so heavy and unending in its energy demand.
What do I want?
What do I want?
What do I want?
Not knowing the answers to these questions is itself exciting. I get to ask myself these questions and it almost seems wrong to answer them. I look over my shoulder to see if there's someone running after me with a warrant for my arrest. It's really true that I get to ask myself the questions, and the best thing of all is that I get to answer them however I want.
Where I would go if I could go anywhere?
What would I do if I could do anything?
What do I want to say if I could say anything?
What do I want to feel if I could feel anything?
These are unbelievably delicious questions to consider. Their answers aren't the point as much as the actual getting to ask them of my Self. I'm nearly speechless.
It used to scare me to ask myself questions because I was so afraid that I'd answer wrong or that my answer would make me "bad". It was as though I lived pent-up in a little box that was suffocating and slowly killing me. I'm so done with with this way of thinking. It's as though I woke up one morning and decided that it's time to get out of this flipping hell-hole of a boxed-life that resembles death more than living.
Nowadays, I am devoted to honoring process and to listening long enough for gratitude to surface, trust to warm, and wonder to overwhelm me. When there's some sort of ache or dull pain, or I feel anxiousness or fear, I serve myself well by deliberately staying with it and opening my heart ever more to the existence of these types of feelings. Closing off, running away, or avoiding giving my attention to these feelings doesn't actually make me feel better.
I've found that when I sit and notice the ways I am holding my shoulders up high, tightening my tongue, and holding tight my legs and toes, there's a freedom to be found in simply letting go even a little bit. By giving attention to the areas that irritate me in some way I am giving them permission to exist, to be seen and to be heard.
The more I try to avoid or ignore or control, the more irritated I feel. When I stop flitting about, kneel down, put my hand on my back and rub gently, there's a stilling that happens way down deep. Giving permission for the feelings and the expressing is the kindest thing I could do for myself. Instead of shaming myself or trying to squelch what is naturally being communicated, I get to allow it to exist and I even even get to give it space to be as it is without trying to change anything.
What's blown my mind recently is the concept that I don't always owe someone an explanation for what I do or why I do it. It is my birthright to choose how I want to live. I'm downright floored by this and giddy with excitement at how drastically different my experience with life is now and will be going forward.
I get to live. I really get to live.