Morning Pages: A River Of Words

Wednesday morning I wrote three Morning Pages like always. Wednesday night I typed them, omitting one section, reshaping the syntax of each line I typed. Then I read it, counting each word I cut. There's magic in writing and no magic at all. Magic in that the thoughts didn't exist until I wrote them, no magic because I crafted it through a simple process.

Magic and craft. Art and effort. Feeling and thinking. Morning and night.

I'd go on, but the rhythm leads me straight to, "pressure and time; that and a big goddamn poster," and only Morgan Freeman should say such things. I'll just get on with this morning's pages:

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It is a mornings when I resist the pen and open space of the three blank Morning Pages. I have no doubt I'll fill them — I've already filled the first three lines — but it seems too much trouble. Sometimes beginnings are like that for me (maybe for you too), but then I see I've filled this much of the page just because I started. It's that much easier once I begin. I'm not even a third through the first page, but already the feelings of impossibility or even difficulty have melted away. Doing is the way out of feeling overwhelmed.

I'm helped by the steady flow of 1,964 days of Morning Pages. This 1,965^th day in a row is nearly inevitable as I'm carried along on the river of finished pages, 5,892 of them so far, 5,895 by the time I'm done today. The flood of all that pushes through any dam trying to hold me back. The routine of awakening with a pen and filling three pages every day for over five years gets me through most hesitation and barriers. The fatigue of last week, the sickness this past weekend, and all my feelings of being overwhelmed give way to the habit of Morning Pages which, so far, has proven an unstoppable surge.

It's not just a matter of my obligation to the streak. Writing Morning Pages turns out to be the best way I can start the day. All this week good has come from them — good pieces, good thinking, good realizations, and good feelings. Even as sluggish as I felt this morning, I began the writing in a small hand, ten to twelve words per line, some hidden part of me wanting room to write long, some big idea springing through the movement of my pen. I'm on track for a thousand words in three pages and have lost care for the time enough not have even looked at the clock. I'm happy to let the words lead me to whatever it is I need, however long it takes to get there.

I woke tired, needing something. More sleep? A warmer house? Light in the dark sky? I turned to another comfort, my thoughts springing mysteriously and trickling out one word at a time onto the dry plain of the blank page. Sometimes the thoughts come out well, other times they spill out ugly. Mostly it's not any one good thought or moment of enlightenment I'm after so much as the rhythm of following the flow of the thinking. I've filled two-thirds of this morning's pages and still I happily don't know into what other thoughts these will flow or how today's last line today will end.

I've now been carried onto the third line of page three by the steady current of a deep river. I'm in no hurry to reach the end nor do I imagine what the last line will have to say. These words simply flow between the boundaries of the margins of these pages and I follow.

I can't recommend this enough but know how difficult it can be to create such a torrent of habit. The first morning, July 5, 2014, I wasn't pulled along by any river. I sat at my desk in a dry wash and tangle of dead brush. I hacked at that brush for three quarters of an hour and made just enough room to stand. Sweat enough to leave a damp spot. I wondered if I'd ever do another day's pages. I couldn't imagine that dry, barren ground as the bed of a river, couldn't imagine a source, not even a trickle.

In the beginning, one stroke of the pen follows another and there is a letter on the page, followed by others which become a word that lived until then only in my mind. The word leads to another and another, forming a thought that began within me but finished out in the world and led to the next idea until half a page became a page and a half, two, and then three pages. The next day another three followed and the next day after that.

Drops of water, enough of them over time, become the river.

Too soon each morning I arrive at this last blank line. It's not nearly long enough for all I have left to say. More pages tomorrow. More words all day long. The river rolls on and on.

Same As It Ever Was

Just got back from my first run in about a month.A slow 5K in the chilly Syracuse November. It felt good. I'm trying not to think beyond this one run and as I ran tried not to think of anything at all. It's no good thinking about the possible next runs. That's the way to failure. Instead, I want to be okay with the simple fact that I ran today and felt good. That's all. That's enough.

It's the same every time I run after a long layoff. I wonder, why haven't I done this sooner? But I know. It's because running felt impossible. It's not just that I feel unmotivated. Even at my lowest I a run will feel good and take me out of the darkness. I understand that as fact, but I just can't run right then. I'm know that just as sure. Of course I could run except that I can't.

I wish I could explain it better.

Chance gets me running again. Today, I left work earlier than in the last few weeks. I'd done a day's work and I'll put in extra hours tomorrow night. Staying at work would have been a case of diminishing returns for the organization and for me too. So I walked home, pet the dog, changed into running clothes, and went out the door, down the road.

There wasn't much thought or planning. Thought and planning keep me from running more than they get me out on the road. I felt like a run was possible and kind of wanted to. I didn't think it would transform me. I'd still be fat and the answers to life's big questions would still elude me. Still, it felt like the thing to do.

I texted my wife that I was going for a short run. I kept expectations low for me, not her. I told the dog I'd be back soon. That I went for a run and it was the same as it ever was. The same good, not great. Nothing to write home about, but here I am. Another thing same as it ever was.

It's best to let these things be instead of thinking them to death. Someday I may figure out how to do that. Then again, probably not.

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Speaking of thinking things to death, this is another instance of writing something I've written before (probably several times). I worry about that but I need to think things through a few times. If I bored you, sorry, but that's how this works. The writing is free and you get what you pay for. I've probably written that before too.

Awareness & Anxiety

A teacher friend said they gained twenty pounds over the last few months, likely from job-related anxiety. One reason I decided to leave teaching was that I gained twenty-four pounds over the first five months of my last school year. Nothing I did made things better, so I got out, naively believing that switching jobs would be so healthy I'd be transformed and the weight would fall right off.

I'm smiling about the wistful logic in that line of thinking. Much of my weight gain was tied to anxiety and unhappiness. A better job meant relief from all that, right? Well, no. I'm still anxious about what to do and what will happen. The tones of my worries have changed, but I'm still anxious. The question is how to deal with that.

Awareness seems the key. Anxiety can be a driver. It's like going on stage. The pressure is good so long as I manage it. However, if anxiety becomes the driver, I'm frantic to the point of being unaware. Then I eat poorly and sink into depression. That's some of why I'm still heavy. I have a great job and I'm out of a terrible job, but I still lack awareness and still carry lots of anxiety. Fighting that anxiety hasn't proven effective. Being aware of it, just being aware, has shown some encouraging results.

Yesterday I was aware. After two days sick on the couch, I felt stronger but not whole. I woke aware of that and wanting to remain checked in throughout the day so as not to wear myself out. Because I was recovering from a stomach bug, I was aware of what, when, how, and why I was eating. By last night I felt good having been aware throughout the day.

Having a goal to lose weight isn't effective for me because it concentrates on a symptom. Awareness seems a better way to go though I won't master it and will likely drop the ball. So it goes. I'm not quite at the top of Maslow's hierarchy. Hell, I can't even see the top from where I stand. That's okay so long as I keep climbing, seeking enough awareness of my world and self that I become more deliberate, considerate, and thoughtful of my choices. That's a way toward contentment, peace, and achievement. It might even shed a few pounds.

I felt myself rev up this morning as I tallied up the things I want to do, the things I felt had to be done. Rather than beat back the anxiety, I whispered, "I'm getting anxious." I made myself aware and the anxiety receded. I took a breath, pet the cat, and came back to the world. If that's all I accomplish today, I'm satisfied.

Said Before, Said Again

Alan Jacobs has a post wishing people would use his blog as he does. I get it, but I'm not all that thoughtful about how people read or use my blog. I like people reading it. I'd really like more people reading it, though not too many (too many readers costs money). Jacobs' blog is more scholarly than mine (every blog is more scholarly than mine) and it's scholarly use I think he's after. That's a fine enough idea, but I don't subscribe to it. I do subscribe to his blog, however, and if you like reading someone smart with whom you'll often disagree, I recommend it. Remember what Aaron Sorkin says:

"If you're dumb, surround yourself with smart people. If you're smart, surround yourself with smart people who disagree with you." (Sports Night, "The Hungry And the Hunted")

The part from Jacobs I like most is his idea that a blog "allows you to revisit themes and topics." I was reminded of that this morning writing of listening to an album before work as I used to listen before high school. That felt familiar, like I was repeating myself. I kind of was. That feeling nagged me through the writing, but I hit publish without searching for the older post and felt no remorse. Why not revisit ideas?

Years ago, I stopped subscribing to Runner's World because of their repetition (and their whorish devotion to Nike et al). The annual "How To Run Your First 5K" or "This Is Your Marathon Year" articles recycled not just an idea or two but what felt like whole issues. That kind of repetition is deadly dull.

Jacobs' repetition is a returning to ideas in order to more fully think them through. That's good repetition. Mine is a half-assed version of that and hopefully nothing like Runner's World. My two posts have only a passing connections: the song, wondering what I did as a kid while the song played, comparing an awful teaching job with my exciting new job. The biggest repetition is in the tone of the ending. That repetition I regret.

If that's as bad as it gets, I'll keep repeating, though I hope I'll think of something different to say tomorrow, something new, preferably with an ending that sounds like nothing else I've written recently.