Medicinal Moments and What It Means to Choose Ourselves
I tried to write yesterday, but the words wouldn't come. Some people refer to this as writers block, but I've never really thought of it that way. I think that some things simply need time and space. Sometimes silence and stillness. Sometimes music or motion. A chance to absorb or observe. An opportunity to consider.
And still the World asks that we prioritize productivity over almost everything else. Somewhere along the way we have come to celebrate and glorify busyness, often using it as an indicator of our success.
We keep going, we keep doing, and we keep waiting for the contentment that never seems to come because how can we ever really relax into a moment when we're so conditioned to always be thinking ahead.
So, when the words won't come, I ask myself what I need. Not what I need to be more productive. Not what I need to achieve the next goal. I simply ask what I need in the moment. And then I do my best to meet that need.
Lately, my needs have looked like recognizing that not everything I think, feel or create has to be shared. They've looked like understanding, with the most wonderfully unburdening clarity, that I don't have to read ten opinion pieces on social media before I can form my own view. They've looked like not investing in relationships that are shallow beyond the surface and offer little meaning beyond the superficial. They've looked like trusting in the timing of my life and what it means to choose myself. They've looked like laps of a pool, over and over again as my body comes to remember weightlessness and ease.
It's remarkable to me just how medicinal simplicity is. To not have to unnecessarily adorn everything. To let the solitary second be rich and bare. And how, then, there is no block, no obstacle, just a flow of awareness and gratification at what it is to come home to ourselves.