Making Up for Lost Time, revisit

As I step back to my blog, I’ll be posting new content on Mondays and revisiting older, but still relevant, posts on Thursdays. This is the first in my #TBT series.

Next Chapter

Editor’s Note, January 24, 2019: I’m looking back at old posts and seeing how they resonate with me now. This one, in light of what I wrote on January 21, 2019, reminds me of all the ground work that God did in anticipation of 2018. While we were trudging through, my husband and I often reminded ourselves, “none of this is a surprise to God.” This post, originally written in 2017, is evidence that He knew what was coming and was preparing us in advance.

During all my years of soldiering — of butt-kicking and name-taking — I was in constant motion, often simultaneously cooking, doing laundry, answering email, talking on the phone, and granting or denying permission to one of my children. I got a lot done. It seems that I was able to keep a clean house, feed a family, teach hundreds of students, and arrive most…

View original post 763 more words

Advertisements

From Mourning to Hope

Was 2018 heavy? I feel like I spent about twelve months of exhausting trudging, eyes to the ground, trying to find my next step.

My son, who served in the 82nd Airborne often talks about “rucking” — a long march, 15-20 miles or more, with a heavy pack of gear strapped on your back.

Image result for ruck march
Ruck March

The soldier carries necessities — provisions, weapons, extra socks, and the like — on his back and moves forward. The more he does this, the better he gets at it — the longer he can go, the more he can carry. Soldiers practice rucking, of course, so that when they have to go on a mission, they have the strength and endurance they need to endure.

Now I have used the metaphor of the solider many times in this blog to describe a lifestyle that I used to live that was characterized by butt-kicking and name-taking. This year was not that kind of soldiering. No, that old lifestyle was built on the premise that I had the strength within myself to accomplish whatever task was put in front of me. It was built on bravado; I believed that by the force of my will I could solve all the problems and complete all the tasks. I’ve learned a lot since then.

Much of my writing over the last four and a half years has been a chronicle of the retraining I’ve undergone to stop living the soldiering lifestyle — I’ve changed physical things like my diet, exercise, healthcare providers, and job, and emotional things like the ways that I speak to and care for myself. Yet, while I have been very intentional about stepping away from soldiering, I am still prone to strapping on that backpack when the going gets tough.

And it does get tough, doesn’t it?

This past year was the toughest yet. And I might’ve gone back to soldiering, if it would’ve done any good, but it wouldn’t have, because 2018 brought the kind of heavy that dispelled any vestiges of that former belief — that bravado — that inner mantra I used to live by that said I could handle anything. The heaviness of 2018 was more than I could carry. I could no longer ruck. I had to admit my powerlessness. I sat down, and I cried. Over and over this year, I cried, and I cried, and I cried.

I grieved most of 2018. I grieved for the losses of many who are dear to me — who themselves lost so much this year — and I grieved for myself — for all the losses I have failed to grieve over the years. Likely the biggest grief of all was realizing that — that I hadn’t felt all the feelings when I should have been feeling them; instead, I had been rucking. I’d been carrying a load of hurt shoved down deep in a bag, when I should have been spreading all the griefs out on a blanket, examining each one and recognizing the weight of each loss.

So, I spent the last several months doing just that. I have examined the contents of that bag. I have spread it all out. I have sorted it with the support of my therapist. I have processed it by writing page after page. I have prayed and prayed and prayed. I have invited others to pray with me. I have spent hours and days and whole weeks talking with my husband — rehearsing forgiveness and grace. And, guys, I think I’m ready to take a break from grief.

For years I’ve worn a small heart charm on a gold chain. The heart has a K on the front and my birthdate on the back. It was a baptism gift from my godparents, and I wear it to remember whose I am. Almost 15 years ago, I added another charm — a butterfly that my mother gave me when I earned my master’s degree. I wear it to remember that I have been transformed. I’m not big on jewelry. In fact, my skin rejects all but the finest of gold, so when my chain broke about a year and half ago, I didn’t get it fixed because we were already in the throes of trauma, and I didn’t have the wherewithal or the resources to deal with it.

But on Christmas morning, as we sat in our living room with three of our four children, and we started to believe that the gray fog of grief was lifting, my husband gave me my repaired gold chain. I’ve put it back on, because I need a physical sign that the season of mourning is over. I need a daily reminder that I am a child of God who has been transformed. The times of refreshing have come.

Certainly 2019 will not be free of trouble. We may be devastated again today or next week or next month, but for now, I am going to acknowledge that we were carried through 2018 not by our own might, but by the Hands of God who saw every tear, heard every prayer, and who, right now, is turning our mourning into hope.

You have turned my mourning into dancing for me;
You have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
That my soul may sing praise to You and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever.

Psalm 30:11-12

Take Care for the Holidays

I’ve been easing myself in to the holiday season.  It all starts with emails and phone calls early in October.  Who is doing what for Thanksgiving? Who is hosting? Who will travel?

Discussions of Thanksgiving turn into talks about Christmas. Who will we see? Who will we miss? Where will we worship? What gifts will we buy?

Holidays matter. They have been historical points of connection. Even if they haven’t been perfect, they have had meaning. So each year we start early to anticipate reunions and traditions, fondly remembering turkey dinners, caroling door to door, sledding down snowy hills, eating Christmas cookies, and unwrapping presents on Christmas morning. And we build expectation that our holiday gatherings will be Norman Rockwell perfection — even if they never have been.

All of this hope and expectation filters into our holiday conversations, which, if they haven’t already, will start this week.  You’ll ask or be asked, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” expecting to hear something like, “Well, we always go to my grandmother’s,” or “We host a huge feast every year,” or “I’m getting together with my friends locally.” These questions seem harmless or even polite, but you may be surprised to learn that they can be emotionally laden (and even triggering) for many among us.

  • For the young man estranged from his family because of differences in beliefs.
  • For the grieving parents whose only child lost the battle to cancer in February.
  • For the recovering addict who isn’t up to managing the annual toast or maneuvering through family drama.
  • For the woman who was molested by a family member every holiday during her childhood.
  • For the newly widowed man who lost the love of his life last summer.
  • For the family who is recovering from years of dysfunction and trying to start new traditions.

They are all around us — these brave souls who are taking great pains to get out of bed every day, who struggle on a Tuesday to shower, dress, get to work, and feed themselves. Regular days are hard.

Holidays?  Those are next-level difficult.

I was lying on a table last week as one member of my health care team was attending to my body. We entered into the pre-Thanksgiving questioning protocol benignly enough, but before I knew it, there were silent tears and flashes of memory. Holidays do that.  They conjure up images of joy and pain — the full tables and the empty places. They invoke feelings of contentment and regret. They raise expectation and anxiety.  Cordial exchanges that seem casual on the surface, may trigger an emotional reaction in those among us who are quietly struggling or suffering.

Am I saying that you shouldn’t ask the questions, or that you should veer away from discussions of family and Christmas and tradition and celebration? Not at all.

I’m saying, take care.

I’m saying look people in the eyes. Ask, and then listen. Don’t assume that every person in your world is looking forward to the holidays with joy.  Rather, know that for many this is a very difficult time of the year. As you move through your pre-holiday interactions with the people in your life, you may be the only person to see the hard swallow, the averted gaze. You might be the only one to notice the dodged question or the avoidant joke.

And when you do, lean in.  That hurting person needs to know that you saw, that you noticed, that you heard.

After I got up off that table last week, my provider and I exchanged a hug. That’s all. No prying. No awkwardness. Just a hug. The tears were seen and acknowledged. That was enough.

Yesterday, I began my search for gifts for the important people in my life.  My focus was on the objects, of course. I was trying to find just the right items. A salesperson asked me if I was just looking; I said yes and then continued to browse. She kept talking, wanting to tell me about the sales. My initial reaction was to be annoyed, “Just let me shop; I said I don’t need any help.” I didn’t say it out loud, thankfully. Instead, I stopped, listened, and chatted with her a couple of times. I looked at her eyes. I listened to her voice.

I’m trying to live differently.

I think that’s where it starts, don’t you? If I just pause from churning through my to-do list for a moment, slow my roll a bit, I can see the other people around me. And when I see them, I will begin to notice the ones who just can’t wait to get home to be with their families and the ones who are aching and anxious and wish we would just knock it off with all the angels and bells and Santas already.

And when I notice, I can take care, lean in, and listen a little bit more.

 

Romans 12:10

Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.

Process-ing

I had been trying to get back into the swing of writing consistently, plopping down 300 words a day in front of all of you, following Anne Lamott’s suggestion to just get them on the page. Every day I was stumbling along obediently, in true teacher fashion, modeling what I hoped my students would do — dump out the story; clean it up later.

I wasn’t liking any of what I was writing, but I believed that if I kept at it, I would eventually get some gold.

About that time, the group of ladies that I meet with for breakfast suggested that we begin reading Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.  I wasn’t with them when they made the decision, but I got a text with the title that the others had chosen. We’ve read many books together already: Ann Voskamp’s The Broken Way, Barbara Brown Taylor’s Learning to Walk in the Dark, and Brene’ Brown’s Braving the Wilderness among them. We often make our selection based on a hunch one of us has that a book going to be good. Without fail, each of the books has served almost as a guide to the narratives of our individual lives — just the thing we needed to hear at a particular time.

For example, when we read The Broken Way, one of us was walking her mother through her last days, another was hearing for the first time the brutal details of a horrible event in a family member’s history, and another was learning that her husband’s cancer had returned.  We were collectively broken, and Ann Voskamp helped us not run from it, but sit in it.

We read Braving the Wilderness against the backdrop of a highly divided nation and discussed how we could be open to conversations with people who don’t agree with us and how we must be brave enough to do this crucial work.

We’ve come to expect that when one of us suggests a book, we should all just jump on board because each of the books we’ve read have guided our conversations and shaped our hearts. Over and over, in the space of a morning-dark living room, we have together been changed.

So why, when I got the text about The Artist’s Way did I turn up my nose?  Well, besides being stubborn by nature, I hadn’t heard the reason for this choice.  And, to be honest, the word ‘artist’ in the title came with a whole bunch of associations that I didn’t feel connected to. Finally, my work schedule had been such that I figured, “Yeah, maybe my season with this group is done. This one probably isn’t for me.”

And so I didn’t buy the book.  I just kept tossing out three hundred words a day like magical seeds that might one day sprout into something.

Then a few weeks later, one Sunday morning at church, one of my breakfast club friends said, “Aren’t you loving this book?  I can’t believe how much I love all the writing!”

Wait. What?

“The writing?” I said.  “I’ve gotta admit, I haven’t bought the book yet, what kind of writing are you talking about?”

“Oh, my gosh, you’ll love it! You have to commit to writing three pages every morning. I keep getting up in the middle of the night, and I can’t believe all the things I’m putting on the page.”

As she’s talking, I’m opening the Amazon app on my phone, searching for the title, and clicking “purchase”.

“Really? I didn’t know it involved writing. I guess I thought it was going to be about art.”

“No!  It’s about the artist inside of all of us. Oh, Kristin, you’ve got to read this book. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it.”

“Well, I just purchased it. So, I’ll start this week.”

And then the book arrived.  I opened to the introduction, because I’m one of those people who reads introductions, and I just didn’t like the tone of the author. She sounded very know-it-ally, and I just couldn’t. So I set the book on the table next to where I usually write and walked away.

For a week I didn’t write anything. Granted, we were busy at work and I didn’t have a lot of steam left when I got home, and getting up extra early in the morning seemed out of the question.

Until I found myself writing this around 2am:

Technically it’s morning. It’s the middle of the night. Up with pain and brain again. I grumbled about this book today — didn’t want to get it in the first place — dumb title.  Irrelevant. Then the self-important tone of the intro made me want my money back. But I’m not even through the first chapter and I know that Julie Cameron is right. If I write — actually write — three pages every morning, I will create an opening.  

And I started getting up every day at 5:45 — yes, 5:45 — to use a pen and a notebook to write at least three pages. And, like my friend, I’ve been amazed at what has shown up on the page. I’m not censoring, because I’m not writing for an audience. Instead, I am letting whatever is in me come out. Some days I’m writing about things long past. Other days I’m scratching out my current to-do list. I’m writing anger and anxiety and regret and sadness and hope and prayer.  I’m filling my second spiral notebook with no intention of accomplishing anything other than creating an opening.

I met with the breakfast club girls this week. Four of the five of us are writing these pages each morning (or sometimes in the middle of the night).  The one who isn’t said, “So, you’re writing?”  And the rest of us practically pushed each other out of the way to share how profound the experience has been. Then, I sheepishly admitted, “I’m only on chapter two of the actual reading.”  Surely by now, I thought, two months later, everyone else would be almost finished with the book.

“Me, too!” one said.

“I’m only on chapter four,” said another.

And it dawned on me — getting through the book is not the point. This book is not about finishing, it’s about being open to the process. And that is the message of relevance this time around. Just like every other book we’ve read, this one is speaking into our individual narratives. One of us is learning how to be a widow. Another is walking into retirement in a new home in a new community. One is about to become a grandmother for the first time. Another is navigating the comings and goings of young adult children. Me? I’m discovering after thinking that my professional career was over, that I might just have another round in me.

We’re all in phases that aren’t really about arriving or finishing; they are more about being, practicing, living, and breathing through the process.

So, it’s 6:32 am, and I’m spending this morning’s time to reflect, because, writing three pages every morning isn’t so magical that I can’t take a break to put my fingers on keys. I’ve created enough space to see that I can allow myself space.  And that is some kind of gold.

Psalm 5:3

In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.

Wow. Thanks.

Have you ever found yourself replaying the blooper reel of your life, only you’re not laughing?

It seems the highlight tape — all the moments where you really shined —  has been lost or erased and the only film left is your missteps, failures, and blatant rebellious choices?

And you watch it over. and over. and over.

Yeah, I’ve been attending a private viewing for a while, so when our pastor opened up Titus on Sunday morning and started ticking off all the requirements for leaders in the church — being hospitable, self-controlled, upright, disciplined — and all the disqualifiers — being arrogant, quick-tempered, insubordinate, or greedy– I knew right where to cue up examples of how I have blown it and have proven myself to be unfit for the call, which is ironic, since my husband and I have spent our entire adult lives in church work.  It wasn’t long into the sermon when I found myself slinking down into the pew, buried under the weight of conviction.

And at 52 years of age, it’s tempting to think “I’ve ruined it all. I can’t go back. I’ve caused so much damage.” And once that thought has formed, it threatens to become a truth that one might believe, even cling to.

So, I was sitting there slunk down, feeling pretty pitiful, when I heard the words, “to the redeemed, all things are redeemed.” I wrote them down; my ears perked up.

I heard my pastor admitting his tendency to be so exceptionally hard on himself, afraid that he will get it wrong and fail his family, his church, his God. He said that when he had admitted this to a friend earlier in the week, the friend had replied, “If you are teaching your child how to ride his bike and he falls down, don’t you run to him and say, ‘it’s ok, we’ll try again.'” And I could see the scene: I could see my pastor bending down to his child, scooping him up, wiping his tears, and speaking those words of encouragement.

And as I saw my human pastor in my mind’s eye, I simultaneously saw my Father, looking at my blooper reels. I heard Him say, “It’s ok. You can try again.”

And then, while I was still taking in that image, I heard my pastor say, “Every failure has been wiped clean because we are in Christ.”

And then we were receiving communion.

And then I heard myself singing: Let no one caught in sin remain/ inside the lie of inward shame/ but fix our eyes upon the cross/ and run to Him who showed great love/ and bled for us/ freely he bled for us (full song here.) 

And I was choking on the words because they were what I needed to hear.  Inward shame is a lie. I have been caught in sin, but I don’t have to remain there, wallowing, slinking, hiding.

All has been redeemed.

If I believe that Christ died for my sins, then I believe that my sins are paid for — they are redeemed.  I don’t owe a penalty.

It sounds really cheesy and Sunday school-ish.

Unless it’s true.

And it is.

Tonight, a full 36 hours after the pew slinking and song singing, I was reading Anne Lamott’s Help, Thanks, Wow, and I saw this prayer:

Hi, God, 

I am just a mess. 

It is all helpless. 

What else is new? 

I would be sick of me If I were You, but miraculously, You are not. 

I know I have no control over other people’s lives, and I hate this. Yet I believe that if I accept this and surrender, You will meet me wherever I am. 

Wow. Can this be true?  If so, how is this afternoon — say two-ish? 

Thank You in advance for Your company and blessings.  

You have never once let me down. 

Amen. 

And I think to myself, didn’t He just meet me where I was yesterday? Say noon-ish?  And didn’t He prove again that He will never let me down?

He sure did.

Wow.

Thanks.

Romans 8:1

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus

 

Routine

I’m such a creature of habit.  Once I find a groove, I like to stay there.  I like to wake at the same time, eat the same foods, listen to the same podcasts, drive the same roads, and watch the same shows. 

Lately, I’ve been getting up at 6am, doing a little yoga, showering, fixing some kind of breakfast egg scramble, listening to my daily Bible reading followed by a favorite podcast, and driving to work.  At lunchtime, I take a walk and finish my podcast. Then, on the drive home, I listen to music, make a phone call, or simply drive in silence.  Once home, I typically spend some time in the kitchen  — cooking or prepping food for the week’s lunches.  My husband joins me for dinner, then we might take a walk or watch some TV.  We read, then we sleep. 

Now, of course, weekends are a little different, and sometimes I have an appointment or some other detour, but typically, the routine is pretty consistent.  

However, the last week has been a bit out of the ordinary. We had a couple of our kids over for visits. We accepted an offer on our Missouri home. We voted in the primary election. I attended a day-long training. We took a day trip to see my parents, and a few more out-of-the-ordinaries popped up. Most of these were welcome interruptions; nevertheless, my routine has been tampered with, and although I managed well for the first few days, the cumulative effect is grouchiness and irritability. 

I’m sitting on the couch in my pajamas right now, tapping at keys, though I am thoroughly exhausted, because I really need to process and shake off this funk before I ooze grumpiness on any more innocent bystanders.  I “put myself to bed” around eight tonight because I was just that tired, but I’m still awake after 10 because the grumble just won’t be put down.  

I crave my rhythms that much!  I really need each moment of every shower, each breath of every yoga pose, each bite of every breakfast, and each step of every noontime walk. I can’t skimp — not for more than a couple days in a row.  

I’ve become high-maintenance; I admit it. I’d feel guilty if these rhythms didn’t contribute to my overall health, but they do! 

Life in this chapter has taught me that if I want to be kind and attentive to the people in my path, if I want to do my job well, if I want to reduce my pain and increase my stamina, I must oxygenate myself first every day.  And, for me, oxygen is obtained in the purposeful rhythm of routines. 

One of the routines that sustains me is writing.  And, for me, maybe three hundred words a day is just a stop-gap for the days that I can’t write just a little bit more.  It seems that my preferred rhythm is to write anywhere from 700 to 1400 words at a time.  I think it takes me that long to dump out what’s building up, find out where it’s headed, then write myself back off the page.  Perhaps that is what I am doing now. 

It took me the first several paragraphs (the blue text) to dump out my frustration.  Only when I had fully expressed those initial emotions could I move on. The next few paragraphs (the green text) allowed me to analyze those feelings. And now (in gray) I’m just trying to finish.

I’m trying to tell you that I think I use this same model every time I write — I come to the page with some logjam of ideas and words that is just begging to be put down. I write and write until I see that I’ve shifted from expression to contemplation — figuring out why the logjam existed in the first place. I then keep on writing until I can find a way to end, because by the time I’ve gotten to this place, I feel better, I think I might be able to sleep, and I’ve remembered why this part of my routine is one of the most important of all. 

I need all of my routines — the sleeping, the eating, the exercising, and the relaxing — but perhaps the routine that holds all those other routines together, the one that allows me to understand all the others, is the writing.

Now let me go get some sleep.

In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:8

 

Target Practice

One thing I’ve learned about setting goals in life is that sometimes you hit them and sometimes you miss.

I’ve been trying, as Anne Lamott prescribes, to “put down 300 words a day.” It’s really not hard to do.  In fact, if I can put myself in one spot for 10-15 minutes, I can typically make it happen. I might not say anything profound, but that’s not the goal right now.  The goal is to merely put down 300 words a day until something happens.

Still, like any other goal, if I want to hit it, I’ve at least got to take aim.

I tried on Friday — I used my thumbs to write what I thought was about 300 words while walking on my lunch hour — I felt that I rambled on and on, but when I got a  chance to log-on to my laptop, I discovered that I hadn’t even reached the 200-word mark!

I’ve got to admit — it was a half-hearted attempt.  If I’d been serious, I would’ve taken my pro stance, lined up my sights, and zeroed in on my target.  Instead, I was walking, bent over my phone, and probably trying to show off a little.

Over the weekend, I stepped out of the box altogether, put down all my weapons, and took in my surroundings.

I had conversations and collaborated on decisions. I completed the mundane (groceries and laundry) and the monumental (joining my husband in selling a house). I laughed until my guts hurt as my son told a story and wept soft tears of lingering grief as I strolled down memory lane. I sprawled on the floor to watch a movie and sat at a table to watch my daughter talk to my mother. All weekend, I drank in the fullness of life.

And now, at four o’clock in the morning, I find myself pointing once again at my target.

Hit or miss? We’ll see.

Philippians 3:12

Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on…

 

 

Stepping outside

What if I branched out and, in an attempt to put down 300 words a day, I wrote on my phone while taking my lunch time walk?

Would that be weird? Say, hypothetically, I left the office as I usually do, bag flung over my shoulder, name tag still affixed to my chest, and I simultaneously got in 2,000 steps and 300 words? Weird?

I mean, I rarely pass anyone else on my walks. Sometimes I catch up on a podcast; one day recently, my husband and I negotiated a counter-offer on the house we’re selling during my walk. It’s 60 minutes I have every day that get spent on something. Why not spend them on my blog?

The only problem is that on my phone, I can’t see a word count, so I’ve got to go by feel. I bet I’m getting close. I mean, the goal is just to get down 300 words a day until something happens, right?

Well, there you go.

Whatever you do, work heartily, as though for the Lord. Colossians 3:23

First Steps

It’s  really not hard to reach 300 words if I just start clicking keys.  I used to tell my high school students this.  I would put a prompt on the screen in my classroom and tell them they had ten minutes to fill a page.

Most of my students could easily fill a page (or two or three) in ten minutes, others routinely struggled to put down two lines.  Was it because they didn’t have anything to say?  Not likely — teenagers have lots on their minds. Was it because they had difficulty forming sentences? Probably not, because I had no requirements for spelling, grammar, punctuation, or syntax during free writes.  More often than not, if a student didn’t fill a page in the allotted time, it was because she had difficulty putting the first few words on the page.

It’s not too different from running.  If you want to run a 5k, you have got to first pull on your shoes and get out the door.  Nothing happens until you move your feet and take step after step after step.  The first few steps might take a sheer act of the will, but once the muscles start moving, they actually find comfort in the repetition, the movement, the rhythm.  That comfort somehow morphs into a sense of determination when the first mile is covered, “I think I can actually do this!” The arms pump to encourage the legs along; the mind travels down the halls of memory, sorting and filing images that lay strewn on the floor.  Suddenly, as though no time has passed, the finish line appears.

All is euphoric — applause and bagels and brand new t-shirts.

Until the next morning when you’re lying in bed thinking, “Ugh, do I really want to do that again today?” Then, with a sheer act of the will, you drag yourself from beneath the covers, tie on your shoes, and shove yourself back out the door.

 

James 1:4

Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

 

300 A Day

A friend texted me last week.

“Do you ever read Anne Lamott?”

“Of course.  She wrote one of my favorite books on writing, Bird by Bird.”

“She’s coming to Ann Arbor in October. Wanna go see her?”

“Yes!?!”

Then, I pulled Anne off the shelf and began to read.

I’ve been struggling to write for months.

I’m working more.

I don’t have the time.

And there’s too much to say.

So, I keep pushing it aside and saying, “I’ll be back.”

I mean, really, how do I put all this down on the page?

But I know that’s always where the sense starts.

For me.

Meaning appears through the words that show up when my fingers hit the keys.

It doesn’t happen on command, but unexpectedly, after days and days of discipline, word by word by word, I begin to see what I think, what I feel, what matters to me.

Anne Lamott reminded me that some days I’m not going to know what to put down.  I’m going to stare at blankness for a while.  And when I finally manage to write something , it’s going to look empty and useless.

“But don’t stop,” she says,  “Commit to getting three hundred words on the page every day.” This one is number two hundred eight.

I’ve been doing yoga for a few years.  The first time I tried, I could barely reach my toes when bending from the waist.  I couldn’t hold a down dog for more than a few seconds.  I just finished twenty minutes of practice — moving easily through a series of poses.

It didn’t happen quickly, but one day, about two years in, I noticed that I was strong.

So, I keep doing yoga, and I keep writing down word by word by word.

 

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful.

Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.

Hebrews 12:11