Vast Spaces Pt 2: Greeting Achy Bones and Baggage Like the Rising Sun

"I want to describe myself
like a painting that I studied
closely for a long, long time,
like a word I finally understood,
like the pitcher of water I use everyday..."
- Rainer Maria Rilke (read the whole poem here)

Most of the time I'm a morning person. I wake to music, take a hot shower, and try to remember to thank each part of me as I wash it, paying special attention to whatever part is particularly achy that morning. If I waitstaffed at a catering gig the night before, for example, it'll be my feet: "Thank you feet, oh good little feet. You carry me so far. What humble, useful feet I have."

Back in my room I light an incense, make my bed, open the curtains, practice yoga asanas, and meditate, but not necessarily in that order. Each day necessitates its own rhythm. Tuning in, I re-introduce myself to the guests lodging in my consciousness, and relax into the mode of a most solicitous hostess: "Anxiety, why are you wearing coat hangers for earrings, running over the neighbor's cat with the lawn mower? Come have a seat here and tell me about it. Or keep running amuck like that, that's fine too, but know the offer still stands. I'm just going to pay attention and breathe."

In the kitchen, I make oatmeal and turn on the faucet for the cat to drink from. I sit at the table with my breakfast and write somewhere around three pages, letting whatever's on my mind spill into my journal with as little filter as possible. Among other topics of interest (joys, dreams from the night before, hopes, interactions, epiphanies), I write about those nuissances, my fears. A wise friend of mine once said that naming your fears declaws them.

Things I'm afraid of, as far as I've noticed: being misunderstood, being confined by an idea, being more of a burden than a help, not writing anything that people will want to read, and a whole array of issues having to do with money and the lack thereof.

Phew! Now you know. It's a relief, like shining a flashlight into a dark corner where you thought something really horrible was lurking, and it turns out to be an overweight poodle, just sitting there with its tongue hanging out, crapping all over your hopes and dreams. Which is kind of nasty, sure, but nothing you can't laugh at and clean up after. Take it outside and play some fetch, for God's sake.

Then I drink a cup of coffee and read for twenty minutes or so.

Most mornings, by the time I head to work after a couple hours of glorious alone time, I have an idea of where I'm at. On good days I can actually absorb what's going on around me. I can experience the primal joy of sensory overload that comes with sharpened attention. I have the mental space to laugh in sticky moments. On bad days I notice, "ah, yes, I feel funky today" and ask what I can do to offer myself the most support. More often than not, I'm more tuned in to what's going on with other people, too. I'm learning to be a better listener.

It seems like a paradox at first, especially in a culture where we can be made to feel guilty for taking time for ourselves (I think this especially pertains to women, who are more often expected to put their families' interests before their own). But I would argue that this variety of self-absorption is sacred. When we take the time to hang out and be real with our selves - even if it means we have to get up two hours before the sun - we break down the defenses that keep us from connecting with others. Alone time makes us better company, because we can't offer anyone anything that we aren't able to offer ourselves first: attention (which is another word for love), patience, honesty, trust, a mind open to possibility.

Just think of how much kinder a place the world would be if we'd all just confront our poodles. What have you done for your self today? What will you do tomorrow?