I don’t always wake up tremendously happy. Really. Not even.
The minute my eyes click open my mind speeds off in about five thousand directions, none of which are particularly blissful or peaceful or calm. It could quite honestly be described as unbridled madness.
In fact, it’s taken me a good deal of practice to be able to choose my mind resolutelyenough to change the course of my mornings, my days and my entire life.
I used to figure (upon opening my eyes, I swear, no kidding) I had to battle up, get ready to make a thousand choices and decisions in order to quiet a mind that was tangled with a thousand rabid thoughts – one by one I’d try to stalk them, clutch them and kill them off.
When you find yourself in that rare and paralyzing and exquisite place where it’s scary to write and it’s scary to not write – maybe think about this.
We sit around and we mull over and we wallow in the waiting . . . to see if our creation will ever finally look us dead in the eye. To see if we’ll be okay, if we’ll ever become ready, if we’ll ever find the strength, the reasons, the angle, the answers, the perfect what-have-you.
To expose ourselves.
To lay naked on the table and not budge.