There’s been a persistent dialogue running like a broken record in my head over the last couple of weeks.
Psst. Hey you.
You’ve been kinda lazy lately, eh? (P.S. my inside voice is so very Canadiana.)
When was the last time you worked out?
You’ve been doing a lot of Netflix marathons on the couch lately. (I have been but they’ve BEEN SO GOOD.)
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” ~ Mary Oliver
I mean, you may have lived a hundred before and you may come back again as a cat, or a tulip. Or something close to – but not quite – who you are now, as you work out the kinks of your former existence and burn through your karma while searching for your purpose.
It was this Sunday last year. The last day of the long weekend. And as I search my mind, I can’t honestly recall if it was sunny because there was a dark cloud following me everywhere I went and a deep-seated anxiety that bubbled quietly and angrily below the surface.
Waking from a winter’s slumber.
Find a cozy spot: a space within which you can perch undisturbed. Grab a pen. Snag your favourite notebook or journal. Because there’s something magical in pen to paper. Ink to canvas. Imagination and honesty oozing from your fingertips. Write without thinking. Without editing. Without hesitation. And when you’re finished, tuck your thoughts away. Let them sink and settle. Return to them later: whenever you need a reset. A restart. A reminder.