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A Sunday Morning Meditation
A journal-style contemplation on changing seasons and feeling stuck
I wonder why the writing stops as soon as my fingers touch the keys. An entire piece writes itself in my mind as I lie in bed, then vanishes as soon as the screen or page appears.
It’s a metaphor for other areas of my life where fantasy outshines action; where the practical execution assassinates the imagination from which it all began.
In any case, we’re here now, and what’s top of mind is this:
For the last 2 weeks, I haven’t posted a Sunday Morning Meditation video. I’m disappointed that I’ve interrupted nearly 5 months of consistency for reasons I can’t quite pin down. Last week’s video suffered some technical difficulties upon uploading, and I never followed up to tend to those issues. This week’s video simply never made it to Substack at all. I’ll get back to it, but this way of processing feels more honest right now.
Love and loss were the themes of the last 2, currently unpublished, videos and perhaps there’s something unconsciously playing out about how reducing those two topics to unthorough reflections seems a bit empty, even though it didn’t feel empty at the time of filming. I can’t be sure, as nothing quite pings there for me, but I’ll continue to live in the question and allow myself to miss a few weeks and still return when the alignment returns.
Speaking of returns… Generally speaking, I feel a sense of ambition coming back into my body. For the last several months, I’ve been yearning for the simplest, most comfortable, most nothingness path and while I understand the meaning of this as it relates to compassion fatigue and unmedicated ADHD, things have ultimately become wildly meaningless. As Libra season arrives, and Scorpio thereafter — seasons historically filled with immense creativity for me — I find myself craving more curiosity and adventure. Admittedly, there is also some fear of repeating old habits and heading back to the same place I always do. For this round of adventures, I’m looking for intention before spontaneity rather than the reverse, in the hopes something will stick.
I exercised some of this ambition recently in a visit with my doctor where I advocated for help with my health in a way I never could before. I initiated conversations about topics I’m typically anxious to avoid, and the mere act of this has broken me open to something new about being vulnerable, being worthy of support, and trusting others to provide that support.
Still, something in me feels cold lately, like I can’t quite access the grateful, floral, love-ridden words that marvel at the very magic of being alive. I’ve always been a bit of a nihilist when it comes to certain things, including the masculine-dominant culture we have little choice but to indoctrinate into. But in previous times, the mere existence of the feminine counterpart could have me singing hope. These days I feel a bit apprehensive about it all, perhaps it’s that compassion fatigue again. I accept the urge to judge this and instead invite myself to be curious about the apparent need for some type of protection in this season of life.
I enjoy the idea of a journal-style offering in this space, as I’ve been a bit too in my head about how to write and what even to write about lately. As my ADHD insists, variety is the key to making a space sustainable for me. So while I don’t make any promises about frequency, I suppose I’d like to commit to more of this.
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