I'd scan this if my handwriting were in any way legible today. Anyway, here's an excerpt from my journal:
I wonder why it's so hard to write these days. Is it the permanence of the way it commits you to a certain or particular expression of your reality?
Maybe it's the way it forces me to line up my thoughts as if with Captain von Trapp's whistle, when they would rather frolic by the water in clothes made of curtains.
At any rate, I keep trying to write insomuch as it feels good for me, just like the walk in today's heat was keeping my joints moving this morning. I have to keep a certain amount of flow.
Maybe I'm just writing to fill up this damn journal once and for all.
David Whyte says all there is to do is to explore the nature of our exile.
Well, these days I am still and quiet, even though I feel like my soul is carrying great weights over long miles. Everything begins with our own soul work, our own transformation, and mine is taking a lot of juice these days. It takes untold patience and trust and discipline to hold myself still, as I feel I must do right now.
It's so tempting to stay skimming the surface, looking busy and maybe even flashy. But too much surface-skimming leads to thin work and thin living. Doing a lot of work counts for little if we're not doing the right work--the work that is centered and grounded in our core.
And my core is easy to disregard.
I'm watching the trees for guidance about being still. Their roots plunge deep, they flower and fruit and add another ring to their girth, so quietly and slowly that they appear to be doing nothing at all.
And yet, they have grown so tall. So strong. Rooted firmly so they can stand through wind and storms.