The label on my tea bag this morning says "Your intuition is your best friend".
Sitting in my writing group, I let the words fly and the keyboard sings beneath my fingers. I do let intuition move my fingers, and I allow the paragraphs to form:
The wind blows from behind me and the warm sun feels like a balm against my face and chest. The other writers sit inside in the cozy warmth, and we write simultaneously in a chain of support and solidarity.
Cars and trucks go by on the street, and I hear the sounds of birds mixed with the traffic. There’s a hum in the air---the hum of life moving along its inevitable trajectory.
Now a small plane cuts across the sky, probably on its way to the local airport. The pilot will land his plane, taxi to his parking area, and exit the plane with a smile. He will walk to the office, pay his monthly fee, joke with his buddy behind the counter, and walk quickly to his car. As he drives along Main Street, no one will know that he was just 15,000 feet above the city, circling over the mountains, the rivers, the farmland, the suburban sprawl. As he manipulates his car amongst the other cars, he thinks of his glorious hour in the sky, and he looks forward to Saturday when his seven-year-old daughter will join him for a spin. They’ll fly over her elementary school, and she’ll marvel at how small the playground looks. Then she’ll point to her best friend’s house and wave and yell hello. They will revel in their time high above the earth, in that perspective that height can bring. When they land, she’ll call her best friend on his cell phone and ask if she saw them fly overhead. Her friend will claim that she could see his daughter waving from the cockpit. He would never deny her the pleasure of believing the impossible.
Back here on earth, the wooden deck I sit on is warm from the sun. I admire the lonely stacks of wood on the other side of the stream that runs through the yard.
In this moment, the anxiety I’ve been experiencing of late is nowhere to be found. Even as I try to conjure it, it will not fully surface. Just this morning I mailed the envelopes containing money that the government is demanding in taxes. Even though I could be working this morning, I am giving myself the gift of writing with colleagues, of honoring my need for creativity and release. I think of the house and all of the work there is to do. I think of tasks undone. Still, even with those images conjured from the sea of uncertainty, I am at peace in this moment.
At times, I want a life that is so full, so fully engaged---a life bursting at the seams. I hear interviews with people who seem to never stop, whose every waking moment is engaged in creative pursuits and interesting work. I admire their tenacity and think how wonderful it must be to have such a full and interesting life. But when I have a week that’s just overflowing with activity, I long for space, for those long unfolding afternoons where anything can happen, where nothing happening is a coup d’etat, where spaciousness is a gift from the goddess of satisfaction.
The Goddess of Satisfaction. Perhaps she should be by new mascot, the one I turn to for succor. Perhaps she can stand on a dais next to the Goddess of Mindfulness, steering me away from the Devils of Ennui and Lassitude, not to mention the Diet Devil who tempts me over and over, seeking out those moments of moral, mental and physical weakness.
But today it is the sun that rules over all as I sit here on this deck, like the bow of an anchored ship. That proverbial dome of blue above me today is just that---a dome beneath which our mortal lives entwine and move, wittingly and unwittingly.
I am luckier than I know, and blessed beyond belief.