 Page 143, I close the page with an old book-sleeve chewed up by a friend's dog that I use as a bookmark. I head into the kitchen where my coffee caraffe is on the warmer setting, and I pour another cup to continue my morning. "To Shake the Sleeping Self," has been the book of my morning for a couple weeks now., by Jedidiah Jenkins. I'm a slow reader, I take my time, get caught up in words as the coffee runs through my veins until I am jittering with inspiration. That's what I love about a good, it transcends you to a different world, and the moment you recognize you are back in your own world, you are catapulted with ideas from the world you just left. It's like travel, instead I was at home in my comfy chair drinking coffee with my robe on.
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 It's been a very long time since I stepped foot in a church. Years. Five, maybe more. Until yesterday. It was a snowy Sunday morning, the roads were covered, the plowman were sleeping, and no one had any business being out. Except loyal churchgoers.
How simple acts can speak volumes of love  It's a cold winter morning in upstate New York, and it's Saturday. Like my own personal Sabbath, I rest today. Opting for warmth inside, I come here to write. Alongside my other indoor cozy activities, cooking, reading, meditation, catching up with friends, the feeling of sitting down to write is a homecoming with self.
 Ever since the turn of the new year, me along with the rest of the self-improvement world began enacting new years goals. Those goals- eating better, exercising more, prioritizing relationships, are famously laughed at for their fleetingness. I, of course, like to believe that my goals don't fit into that category. Mine are serious, well-intentioned, and will be followed through with. So I like to think. But it does bring to question what a lasting goal really. means. Or first off- how do we define a goal at all?
 Vulnerability researcher, Brene Brown said in a Ted Talk that vulnerability is not a weakness. Even though it can make you feel like you want to crawl under the sheets and dream you were a carefree child again, she said vulnerability is an act of courage.
 How does one know where to call home?
Right now, I call Trumansburg, New York my home. It's where my clothes are unpacked, shirts and sweaters hang in a closet. It's where my dog keeps her bowls and her new giant lambchop squeekie toy. It's where I drive back to each day, come in the door, make supper and lay my head down.  To tell you about my spiritual journey would be way more than a thousand words, but in brief, it goes something like this. Grew up in a Christian conservative culture living in South Central Texas, my family attended a Methodist church, I later found a youth group at a Baptist Church that I attended separate of my family. And I was a regular Christian summer camp attender. Year after year, I could not wait for the friendship bracelet-making, late night bunk bed slumber parties and mess hall food fights. But most of all, I waited all year for the impending dramatic moments by campfires and starlight where me and my fellow campmates would unveil our souls, confess our sins and walk away riding a cloud of God's love.
 As I sit on a wooden bench, nothing but a towel and a few layers of sweat beneath me, to my right is a woman in her mid-fifties asking what day it is. Her guests arrive on Friday, it's the weekend before Christmas and she still has grocery shopping and house cleaning to tend to. Luckily, it's only Thursday, so she has more time, though the elder woman in-between us reminds her the grocery stores will be chaotic. We all shared in the stress of the holiday. There were two woman to the left of me, one maybe in her forties and one younger than me, perhaps late twenties or early thirties. We talked of presents needing wrapping and whether or not this year will bring a white Christmas or not.
 It's a little after 9am, I am sitting in a big, cozy green armchair that swallows me, dog on my lap, computer on my dog, coffee to the side. Out the window in front of me it is snowing sideways. Sometimes the wind picks up the snow into a circular whirlwind. It's good to be inside on winter days like these, and my morning rituals feel all the more precious compared to warmer days when the bright blaring sunlight taunts me to hurry up my day.
 Here I am. Back to the old blog. I've had this thing now for a decade. One would normally open a bottle of wine to celebrate the success of encapsulating stories and ponderings for perhaps a 10th of my life, but my love/hate, all-in/all-out relationship with writing doesn't feel like something worth celebrating. I literally repaid the subscription to open my domain just minutes before starting this post. Like dusting off the old Bible, it's a story I haven't engaged with in a while. Why? I dare not ask myself. My head sinks into my shoulders every time another person asks me if I am writing. "Don't ask if I've been writing, you know if I'd been writing, I wouldn't be here talking to you," the words of singer, John Craigle penetrate like robbed thoughts from my mind.
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AuthorKatie Elizabeth. Writer, Wonderer, Wanderer. ArchivesCategories |
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