Dating : Reinstating an Old Habit

h2>Dating : Reinstating an Old Habit

Writing first thing in the morning….

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

Old habits aren’t always wrong or bad. Writing first thing in the morning was a habit I began about seven or eight years ago before the household was breathing with their necessary demands.

Over the years this pattern has changed up a bit. Sleep is precious especially when hours of insomnia hits. Then and now I’ll linger longer in bed to catch a few more minutes before the ‘plunk’ of the first set of footsteps summons me from slumbers catacomb and make breakfast in shifts. See everyone off, with hug and a kiss, and I-love-you. Then make another fresh round of coffee to explore the cobwebs just starting to spin and write for two hours until I need to get ready for work. This pace functioned well.

Somehow, in the last six months? Nine months? Maybe a year? I’m not sure. I fell away from that writing pattern of coming into the kitchen, ritualistically starting some coffee, feeding the cat and daydreaming into the silence that carries with her words, feels and thoughts to explore. The most delicious thing I’ve missed is the silence and no conversation stretched before me, where I know there’s a territory of the unknown. It is mixed with a sunrise that has barely arrived, and the darkness feels like a burgundy thick robe.

Last weekend, I took some time off to write and jumpstart this abandoned alcove. As always, I sat down with the whys and hows and whats of who and how I am evolving as tenderly as possible to try and resolve the inevitable question where had my writing gone? It was a spreadsheet of the self exploration kind that turned into a flowchart with a bouquet of vivid colors.

Maybe some of the old voices had started to get a grip inside my skull. It’s a mystery to me how long I was told and survived, ‘you can’t write and what you do write is awful.’ Said by familial, former spouses and teachers.

Subsequently, for decades I limped along with a crutch and a chain of deepening shame carrying a heaviness of wanting to share but not able to. In retrospect shutting way down saved me. Those reams of paper and journals were stuffed in silent boxes. I carried them from move to move along the east coast until the grand move to the west coast where those earlier pieces lived in a busy garage for another 9 years. Before the next move, I decided to have them shredded. I waited another 8 years before writing again.

Writing is so personal. Thoughts that come from inside are pure and raw and very real. It’s like our dreams are being fed oxygen and the ink comes alive and before us we see who we are.

What do you think?

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