30. cheating
Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her.
Put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.
Honestly, what the actual fuck was that rhyme about? Some weird patriarchal vibes there that we turned into a kids song?
Anyway, I’m thinking about cheating.
No, not on my husband.
Not on my workouts.
Not on my gluten ban, or my sugar restriction.
Not in school (gasp - I would never. Teachers pet for life).
I’m thinking about cheating...
on my writing.
I mean I was thinking about cheating on my writing practice, but as you can see, here I am, words tumbling and spilling out in a jumble of just what’s on my mind.
Just being with what is.
A few minutes ago, I was thinking about cheating, and just copying some old writing, because frankly, I’m tired, my throat hurts a little bit, I’m sitting at the computer waiting for an online psychiatrist appointment for my ADHD meds at 9:40pm (pumpkin hour for me, apparently we have a pumpkin theme today), and I just… don’t feel like I have a lot to say.
I also didn’t work out today until 8:40pm, and I almost didn’t do it at all. Then I was mulling over the idea of my writing to you being on the topic of failure - what is failure? How do we define it? Is it a failure if I fail to follow through on a measure that I only created for myself? When is it failure to follow through, and when is it success to choose a different direction?
I spend a lot of time wrestling with that thought pathway when it comes to discipline. In general, I resist my own authority. As it turns out, one of the classic symptoms of ADHD is something called pervasive demand avoidance.
Which is a fancy way of saying don’t fucking tell me what to do.
I smirk a little writing that, because really, who does like being told what to do?
My kids sure don’t like being told what to do. Husband doesn’t like being bossed around. Dude, even my dog looks at me sideways when I give him commands.
So anyway, sometimes when I create goals for myself, or commitments, or even devotional creative practices like this, of course there comes a moment (or many moments) when I look over my shoulder at my past self and say, “don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
But when I thought about cheating tonight, and started combing my folders of writing for what I wanted to share, a gentler voice spoke. Not the bossy one saying, “you have to write” nor the bratty one saying, “the fuck I will,” but a third voice, curious, patient, and remarkably neutral.
“The point isn’t what you produce,” it said softly, “the point is simply your practice.”
I am in the practice of showing up for myself, my creativity, communion with the blank page, and connection with you.
I am in the practice of writing so the words can show me what I can’t quite see clearly yet
I am in the practice of practicing.
But just for kicks, because I did find a cute little piece of writing that felt spot on for this mood, I’ll share that today, too.
Enjoy, and thanks for helping me show up for myself.
***
Fumbling,
stumbling,
grasping for
the reluctant words,
the moment of magic -
Stagnant,
stale,
stilted expressions,
pried painfully from
the wrong part of the mind.
That’s not where they live.
Words flow
like water, like spun gold,
and they live here -
in my belly,
in your heart,
in the place of surrender.
Can’t force them,
cajole them,
entice them with sweets.
Can’t lure them
with promises of fame,
acknowledgement,
or favor.
There’s no guarantee
they will come;
they owe you nothing.
It is you
who owe them -
your time,
patience, attention, care...
You owe them
your life
because -
Writing them,
they write you,
bring you into being
one bit at a time
one bite at a time;
Change you
into someone who sees,
mold you
into someone who listens,
force you
to expand,
dig deeper
to bloom.
If you’re lucky,
you can chase them
the rest of your days.
If you’re lucky,
one day
you might catch them.
(word blossom)
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