Sunday, 12/26/21
I sat down to work on my novel but I don't want to anymore.
What I want to do is
name what I'm feeling,
which is
sad.
Sadness is a tightness in my throat.
Sadness is a weight in my chest.
Right in the middle.
Heavy like a metal trash can filled with rocks. Not pebbles. Not boulders. Rocks with heft that could be lifted one at a time without too much trouble. But in a pile like this, they can't be picked up all at once.
And that's how I'm feeling right now:
sad.
I would lay on my bed and scroll through my phone but that wouldn't feel good.
Running didn't exactly feel good today.
Putting pen to paper feels good, though. Drinking this warm tea feels good.
Today while I was running, I came across a tree down across the trail. I had to climb over it to get by, and as I did so I stopped and stayed perched on it for a moment. Some thoughts floated through not fully formed. I wanted to catch them but I knew they weren't ready to be caught. I'm not sure if they're ready now, either, but I want to write them down, see what they look like.
I am the wind.
I am the wood.
I am the one who watches.
I am the silence.
I am the crash.
I am the silence
again.
I am
this
present
moment.
And this one.
And this one.
And this one,
too.
I'm not sure I feel any better. But was better the goal? Was there even a goal?
Write the next true thought:
I feel visible.
I can better see myself.
I put my hand on my chest, right where the sadness lives.
I ask my body what it needs.
Which is the same thing as asking the sadness what it needs.
I think.
This is what I hear:
A little more room, please.
I can do that.
Deep breaths give more space.
One after another.
One after another.
The sadness doesn't go away but it feels seen and held.
And that's all it needs.
