I am feeling increasingly drawn to a higher purpose in this life.
It is okay to own that, to connect my art to something richer and more meaningful. I have not been given a gift, but a calling, a passion that is forever stoked higher and rewards the effort I make to honor it.
Writing something every day. Reading widely. Pushing past what's comfortable in both spheres. Opening to conversations that challenge beliefs about myself, the world, what's possible. Devoting the time to it, stopping in my tracks when I need to take note of a thought or word or idea. Being gut twist honest with myself and those around me, at all times. Asking difficult questions and not accepting careless answers. Attempting to put my full effort into any task. Learning about my body, her physicality and perfect flaws.
The body stores trauma on a cellular level, carries the memories we've seen fit to block, hides them in aching joints and sour stomachs. Sometimes I think back to my life before thirty, and wonder how I could have been so blind to this rich internal world I've discovered. How I could fail to notice that every single moment of life contains infinite depth. I wonder if I ever connected to my breath.
All of this spilling out this morning I would like to attribute to the action of repetitive morning movement. My legs whirring in circles for forty-five minutes, asking my heart to keep pace, my breath to fill all the crevices, my back to remain engaged. I forced myself to feel these things today. To stay connected to the fullness of the experience, not to block anything that arose. That is what I aim to do (I first wrote am to do) today. I choose to live in fullness.