Blessed sleep. Until 7 a.m. Then I lay cozy, listening to the rain.
I feel rested and ... content. My house is pretty much in order after the holiday madness, and I have a pretty lazy day ahead. Just some writing, cooking, walking and puttering.
This is the life I've worked to create. This moment here. I don't want anything else. I have great things to look forward to, but this feeling of contentment is exactly what I want more of.
I'm not worried or irritated or stressed. Yes, there is a lot coming and yes I know there will be challenges. I feel removed from them in this singular moment. Right now I don't have to rush or respond. I don't have to push. I don't have to do a single thing that I don't want to do.
How unusual.
How can I create this more often?
Rest. Keep up on things. Don't take on so much. Accept what I have. Mindfulness and gratitude. Stay here in this moment of pure pleasure.
I reflect upon the years I spent having to respond to the every nonstop need of my children. They're older now, more independent. I can fuss and worry about the problems of parenting teenagers, or I can trust they'll be okay and I can trust that I'll manage the inevitable crises that will arise.
I reflect that I have accepted the upheavals, losses and changes of the past year. There will likely be subsequent pangs and pains when I remember some of these losses. Thinking about the difficulties adjusting to a new job, financial losses, and wondering about the success of my book will quickly bring me back to anxiety-land.
But I choose to return to this moment of listening to my snoring dog in the next room and the pitter patter of the rain outside. I choose to have another cup of coffee, stretch my lovely bones, and remember this feeling.
It strikes me that in fact I do remember this feeling: last spring after my book was accepted for publication, I spent a lot of time in anxiety-land. On a glorious sunny day in May, I took my dog to the lake. We sat on the shore and I lay back on the soft sand. I let my mind drift as I listened to the water lapping the bank and the wind rustling the leaves. I let the tension in my muscles flow down, out, and into the sun-warmed sand. In the wind or in my mind, I heard a clear voice, a voice I knew was my mother's, and she said, "Remember this feeling. It will be great." I felt a profound sense of peace and I absorbed the sensation of utter calm, trust and faith.
This message impacted me so strongly that when I arose, I went to my jeep, ripped off a piece of paper from a receipt, wrote down the words and tucked the slip of paper in my wallet. The winds of change which blew in the next seven months buffeted me back and forth and rocked my entire core, and there were times I clung to those words to get through the storm. I smile as I recognize that same feeling I had beside the lake in this present moment. I know that I CAN create this feeling, by becoming quiet, still, and listening. This time, I say the words to myself: "Remember this feeling. It will be great."
