Some traditions fail because they are completely misunderstood and not-supported by your surroundings, your people, or even yourself.
I’ve been experiencing a big FAIL lately, trying to haul a huge load up an impossible mountain.
I used to do morning pages. And I write a little something before bed every night. But to what purpose?
I have had trouble thinking. All winter it has been a struggle. Terrified of what I might lose as my brain function see-sawed back and forth. For what? What exactly is the point of my fear?
And yet the alarm bells go ding!ding!ding!
I find I care less and less. I see new signals and signs and they are bright and sharp and smell like blood. I look at the material (work and mental-work) made today and compare it to what was made five, ten years ago.
Then I look forward and I have no fear. What will I make in five or ten years? A month, even..
I have never had any real trouble. I am going to be fine. Things will go right back to normal for any situation I move through and finish with.
I am a body at motion and should remain so. And trying to stop and slow down for my realities and think about things and be who I am not has made me feel like an animal who runs with the wrong kind of legs.
I dont really care about that stuff. Can’t afford to. I am a winged thing.
I can be happy for a whole day, even as a Pensive Creature who has icky stomach stuff lobbed her way.