I skip work and sleep in until ten. My body has felt like a Duchamp painting the past few days, in too many places at the same time. When I woke up the sun was flooding the room, and I lay in bed, surrounded by soft white flannel, and watched the dust motes dance in the light. When I wake up, especially when I wake up late or from a nap, I feel like I am trailing myself for a few moments. I startle easily then, and prefer to move slowly, to linger where I am still fluent with the images of my dreams, before language ripples the surface of my mind like someone throwing a handful of pebbles into a serene pond.
I made my way to my studio where lady bugs still seem to lingerâ€”one or two greet me each day on the windowsills, moving about as the sun warms their shiny beetle backs. I wrote for an hour or so, feeling the zinging of anxiety rise and fall in my chest. What if itâ€™s not good? What if I can do better? What if I can never get past the point of beginning, or the halfway? Then Iâ€™d move to my yoga mat facing the sun, and bring my attention towards my tight hamstrings and uneven breath.
By noon, I went running. Some days I wish every day could be like this: mired into the thick of the work I love most, yet able to be flexible and active midday when the sun makes the air fragrant with the smell of dry leaves and damp earth. I came back determined to gather focus, and to pursue what I want (to write fulltime) with more clarity. Iâ€™ve been waiting for this to happen. This shift away from summerâ€™s dreaminess and early autumns tumbled wonder. Like waking up, it takes me a while to shift gears towards productivity after the sensory world I inhabit when the fields are green and the air is rife with the fragrance of ripening fruit and the busy humming of insects.