This week I contemplated rewriting — I think, unbeknownst to me, I began this project as a way to keep me curious and present each week, each day of my remaining life.
How can I not be curious and present when my weekly assignment is to reduce that week into a (hopefully easy to swallow) capsule?
I did not intend to begin this project right before a pandemic.
This week, I remained steady in asking the question, “What is the next right thing to do in this broken world?”
And, as I listened for answers, I was often surprised by the stage direction. One of the final directions was to literally jump in a lake.
With a friend. As a way to reset, as a way to appreciate both the natural surroundings and clear blue sky we were gifted after last week’s sludge and as a way to calibrate our internal systems — breathing slowed, heart beat slowed, muscles melting.
The vulnerability of allowing myself to be seen as the nervous jumbled mess I was pre-jump (not really jumping, more walking in a stately fashion) was arguably the most difficult part.
And yet, it was an honest nervous jumbled mess. I contrasted it to the prickly, defensive, viperous mess I have been in the past and felt kinda good.
Life is hard, in part, I think, because we are performing live. We can’t undo. We can’t revise, exactly. We can, however, continue to own our role, our performance, our purpose here on this earth and remain both curious and appreciative of our steady (if sometimes inconsistent) movement toward a guarded but softened heart.