“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
~ John Lennon
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Last week was difficult. I got a cold. Small potatoes, but it’s been five years since a cold rendered my brain incapable of complex math or conceptual thinking. All interruptions to work either allergies or my own doings – surgeries, travel, procrastination, distractions. And last week only one mantra drove me forward: I have a plan, no time to waste. I was preoccupied with my learning curve in work, the necessary but not.fun.for.me stuff I wanted complete. Sick, I turned into a baby of pouts and darns. By the time I went to bed Saturday night I’d completely pummeled myself for NOT DONEs, totally convinced I was a failure.
Upstairs in bed, my husband Art still downstairs watching TV, I pulled out a pad, jotted a list of clear action steps. I numbered priorities without thinking. At workshops, the word dream spontaneously replaced the shorthand ID. Notes on the dream spontaneously sprung from the line. Some of the items big, really Big (who do I think I am!). As I continued the list, I felt my chest constrict when I wrote ID again. I crossed it out, wrote Dream. Air rushed through me as if a pillow just lifted from my face.
When I coach writers I emphasize getting out of their own way. I tell them it’s necessary to step out of the plan, start without intention or expectation for judgement to subside, for their voice to emerge. That writing is, as poet Laura Hope-Gill says, “like swimming in a rough sea, inviting us to move with the story’s inherent and natural rhythm.” That writing in our own voice is as necessary as honing our craft. And I know the same applies to living an authentic life, fully experiencing the moments in each day. I rarely forget this when I sit down to write, or listen for my next blog. But I didn’t remember when I got sick. Not even after receiving answers to questions and assurance all’s well, no matter my angst.
On my first drive out after feeling yukky, I halted a smidge over the line at a stop sign, a clear Oops. The young woman in the other car with the right-of-way laid on her horn. I understood. But she didn’t move. After long moments us looking at each other, I waved her on. As she passed, she gave me the finger. Something I didn’t understand. I admit I don’t get how casually and often young women seem to do that. Admit I tussled inside not to think about it. Not to go in a number of directions in judgement. That it still nagged when I entered the familiar near-empty market.
At checkout I chose a line with a young gal I didn’t know for how she leaned against her register, a broad easy smile on her face. When I said I’d bag my own groceries, her young companion stepped aside. “She’s got it,” he said. “She’s in control.” There is no control, I quipped. The checker looked at me a few moments, “I always wanted someone who’s lived longer than me to tell me more about life. What they’ve learned.” As I bagged I told her to plan, but know that the magic lies between the control, and there’s really no control. As I left I leaned in, told her to go for the magic. At home I realized her gift of respect and appreciation balanced my encounter at the stop sign. It wasn’t until two days later as I stood by the water at sunrise, heard a small voice say “oh, baby girl. looky there,” did I see the gift I gave myself at the market. The reminder I’d stepped out of the plan when I got sick, no control. Time to get out of my own way, open to magic. Reminder angels, don’t you think?
Another journey in mindfulness. Getting to Wise.
A Writers Life.
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A secret: It’s surprising how often getting out of one’s way shows up in conversations I have. I see possibilities zip across minds on the faces.
A favorite: Wandering through a natural foods market.
