I’ve started doing morning pages. For years, maybe decades, I’ve hesitated because holy shit, three pages every morning before work? With everything else I need to do to get out the door? I told myself I didn’t have time. But in the last couple of weeks, I’ve found the time and written. Not every day, and maybe not three pages every time, but morning pages are are now woven into my imperfect morning ritual.
Side note to the slightly neurotic and morbid among us. (I will be the first to raise my hand and acknowledge I am both neurotic and morbid, and not slightly.) Another thing holding me back from morning pages was what if I died suddenly and my spewing, my rants and my dreck were the last tangible evidence of my existence? Pages upon pages of mind vomit, all of my angst in black ink, because getting it all out and onto the page is what it’s about. Two things: (1) what I write isn’t that evil or horrifying – mildly embarrassing maybe, but very human, and (2) shredder. I bought a little cross-cut shredder and after writing, I’ve enjoyed the lovely grinding sound of my words being chewed up by machinery. And lately, I haven’t been so quick to shred because while most of what I write is just purging and cleansing, there are things worth saving.
This morning I wrote of my fears and sadness about the coronavirus, about how lives are upended and in danger, how much I miss and love my people and my anxiety about how this will end. And in an effort to soothe my hurting heart, I started to write out a meditation. I’m repeating it here, in the hope that it could provide comfort, or maybe inspire you to write your own.
What is next? I don’t know. But we have never known. We have now and what is here now. What is here now? The sound of pen on paper, a woman’s voice outside my window, my heart, my breath. My breath, in slowly, holding just a moment, then out slowly. If it feels a little ragged, that is ok. Try again. Slowly in, just a bit more slowly out. Breath becoming steadier, hand on beating heart. I am here. Right now. Deep, gentle breath in, hold for a few heartbeats, and slowly out. That breath is gone. I will never have it again, but here is another one. And another. I am here breathing. I am alive. Softly take in air, believing it will be enough. Soft, gentle, here, now. These are words you can repeat to yourself, as often as you want. One breath in … one breath out.
I wish you peace.