And, and, and, and...

I'm ready to let go of and.

---

Between the first of the new year, and my birthday (on Sunday!) a ritual of mine is to go back through the previous year's notebooks--capturing story blueprints, noting recurring patterns, and discovering hints and whispers of dreams that bear new significance in the light of reflection—in preparation another year’s journey around the sun. My notebooks (nearly always Molskine) are where I record everything: notes from client meetings, sketches, dreams, lines of overheard dialogue, to-do lists, memories, ideas, glimmers. Whatever my mind stirs up, I capture it there on the page.
The work of looking back is an opportunity to connect the dots, tie off old threads, and begin anew. Disconnected notes from months apart suddenly tell a singular story; certain to-do list items are easily crossed off, while other’s linger providing insight into where my sticking points and resistances might lie; and recurring themes emerge though I rarely notice them in the moment, too caught up, as I often am, in the act of doing.
Without realizing it, I was probably dealing with adrenal fatigue for most of last year, yet I never allowed myself to listen. I’d tell myself—there on the page, I feel exhausted in a cellular kind of way. I just need sleep. I just need to be outdoors. Then I’d ignore it entirely and keep right on pushing.
What’s interesting is how and where that little word creeps in. And.
How again and again, in trying to sort out what I really wanted to be working towards, where I should focus, or how I should proceed, I’d begin begin with singular declarative truth: just write.
But then I’d keep listing. And this, and that, and that, and, and, and.
Like an archeologist sifting through the artifacts of my own soul, I looked for evidence elsewhere and found it. Lists weren’t the only places and showed up. And was insidious.
I used it chronically, to the point that I regularly lead sentences with and; knowing full well I was breaking the rules each time.
What I never realized how this habit also revealed a character trait. What I never understood that my overruling grammatical norms with irreverent and hygiene, was symbolic of how I would chronically overrule my limits.
And overextends.
And says: don’t just do one thing, do many things. And says: one thing isn’t good enough, be many things. It says: You don’t really have to make up your mind. It says: you can do it all—this and that. It says: add a little more to your plate, and a little more. It says: have your cake and eat it too. Be this and that, bread and butter, now and later.
I’m ready to let all that go.
I’m ready to let go of contingencies and extraneous details and distractions that easily pull me off course and blur my focus. I’m ready to have this year narrow to the simplicity declarative sentences.I’m ready to lean into the power of committing to singular goals, one at a time. I’m ready to edit, revise, refine. To be. To write. To strengthen my core.
I’m ready to let go of and.
How about you?

This post is part of the Let it Go Project: a collection of stories leading up to a beautiful releasing ritual, hosted by Sas Petherick on January 30th. Find all the details for this free event + join us here.

Upon returning -- Squam Art Workshops Love

Oh Squam. I am so grateful, so wonder-filled, so satisfied.

  It was such a gift to spend time with the brave, strong, gorgeous women whose days overlapped with mine last week beneath the ponderosa pines and red maples and birches of New Hampshire, and on the docks beside the loon-filled lake, blue against a bluer sky; cloud tossed and sun kissed. Being there among those beauties filled my soul and re-grounded me deeply.

  It was just the right combination of pure solitude and true companionship. It was both the experience of being seen—really seen—and also of having time, finally, after a whirling, confusing, busy summer, to finally sit alone at the end of a dock, listening to acorns fall into the lake from the trees above, and watching the ripples spread from each epicenter, until I found my own center: re-reading my journal until I caught up with myself, caught my breath, and found my pulse.

And now I’m back.

 

Really back. Here, now, in this space after an inadvertent break from the Internet that had as much to do with doing some really big growing this summer, as it did about being wildly, failingly busy (which was also the case.)

* * * A quick book update * * *

 

I sold out of the books I brought to the Art Fair. That felt really good. *Grin.*

And the next few weeks are full: with adventures and readings and a book launch party here in Burlington, and a blog tour (soon to come.) And tomorrow I'm making the long trip down to Boston--to read at the Trident (one of my favorite bookstores ever)—and back. I'm excited. And nervous. But mostly excited. If you're in Boston, I hope you'll come!