She lied.
It turns out we ARE supposed to read these morning pages.
Well, I'd love to see her try and read mine,
paltry though they may be.
I can't read them - that's how bad my handwriting truly is.
We're talking big-time scribbling here.
Big-Time.
Well . . . I can read . . . a little.
And, as much as it pains me to admit this,
I think she just might be onto something
with these dang pages.
I'm still not very faithful about it.
I am keenly aware that
the Rebellious Resistor is still around.
But . . .
what I can decipher is just the teensiest bit interesting.
It does appear that I have successfully vented on occasion.
And I do see some recurring ideas/insights/areas of concern:
I am distracted by my mother's health;
I am distracted by the number of interruptions
made by people that I care about a great deal;
I am laden with guilt simply because
I'm trying to listen to that Voice that moves me to take fingers to keyboard and WRITE.
A lot of issues from long ago are rising
and in not very pretty ways.
Things I thought I had already worked through
are making their presence known with a vengeance.
It's beginning to feel like an epic battle some days:
I struggle to learn more about how to get these words,
these words that are wrestling within my spirit,
to flow down my arms and out my fingertips.
And as I struggle, I find old enemies,
recently revived.
Enemies like these:
assuming personal responsibility
for the happiness of others;
carrying personal guilt whenever
said others are unhappy;
fighting the call of God (and muse?)
to stillness and solitude;
choosing to do almost anything but what I say I want to do;
resorting to 'loud' and nasty name-calling inside my head,
about 95% of which is aimed directly at . . . me.
So.
I am slowly working through the tasks listed at the end of chapter 9, the one titled:
"Recovering a Sense of Compassion."
I'd like to tell you that I'm doing them with enthusiasm.
I'd like to tell you that I'm doing them with alacrity.
But I can't do that.
Instead, I can tell you that I am,
at this moment,
attempting to do these two things with
sincerity and honesty:
Take Stock.
and
Take Heart.
And I'm also trying to give myself a little bit of credit.
Maybe, if I do that,
that stubborn ol' Resistor will relent a bit.
I remain ever hopeful.
Only one rose blooming in my yard this week,
but it was a doozy.
I'm sure there's an application there somewhere.
Adding this to the list over at TweetSpeak Poetry as we're working our way through Julia Cameron's, "The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity."
Next week we finish - if I survive that long! - and do THREE chapters.
I have yet to begin. Oy vey.
