An Ode To The Mundane.

When people reflect on their lives, they often hop from one big moment to the next. Moving out of their childhood home segues nicely into the first day of high school followed, thereafter, by accepting their admissions letter to college.

Few people like to talk about scanning emails, picking up groceries or the monotonous walk to and from work each morning...unless, of course, it involves a surprise alien invasion.

And why would they?

There's Always Tomorrow...

I woke up this morning not wanting to touch a thing on my list. 

We just got back from a long weekend in Michigan and the last thing on my mind was falling back into routine. I skipped my morning yoga class, shortened my meditation practice and am writing this very post wondering when it will all be over so that I can go back to doing nothing. 

Because as much as I've felt inspired these past few months, my creativity gene is spent. I'd love nothing more than a mindless job that allows me to go through motions and clock out by 5.

Well, not really. But today it sounds nice.

The Stories I Keep Telling Myself

For every negative story I tell myself, I feel like there's an equal story of consequence with a slightly happier tune. 

I'm a crappy writer vs. I'm working on becoming a better writer

No one's reading me vs. I'm still looking for my first follower

But as much as I reminded myself of these positive alternatives, I was perturbed by the fact that the Negative Nancies come so much easier. 

So I did some research.

From One Perfectionist To Another

I told myself at 16 that if I didn't write and publish my first novel by 20, I'd give it up and devote myself to a serious career, something that required a briefcase and business suit. When I was 20, I told myself that if I didn't write and publish my first novel by 25, I'd give it up and devote myself to a serious career, you know one that helped me do real adult things like pay my bills on time and treat people to meals. When I turned 25, I cried. Then I told myself if I didn't write and publish my first book by 30, I'd finally settle down and accept writing as a hobby. Oh and get a serious career, of course. 

I'm 26. I still haven't finished a novel, but I'm the closest I've ever been to a first draft. I guess it only took 10 years. 

The closer I get to 30, the more I've tried to  grant myself the patience to reassess, retrace and begin again.

When Life Gets Uncomfortable

I used to hate change. The whole process was all too visceral for my taste. That itching feeling that crawls from the pit of your stomach all the way up your spine. It leaves your throat dry and your heart pounding. The very moment when where you are simply won't do, the harsh reminder that all comfort is temporary.

I've encountered it in relationships, in my career. It's put me on to and subsequently taken me off of countless diets and life projects. It inspired my brief obsession with Feng Shui and, at one point, convinced me that I might have a real shot at becoming the next Martha Stewart (well, minus that one mishap of course). Don't worry, Martha, I've got a ways to go.

It's led me to jump to conclusions as many times as it's pointed me in the direction of unparalleled clarity.