30 minutes of journaling. Then I walk Pilot for an hour before going back to work.
A far as jobs go, I like mine. Probably I would rather be jobless with money flowing out of the assholes of gods and into my bank account, but this one's ok. I'm good at the work, good with the people, and I enjoy healing these people's bodies. Enjoy and appreciate the relationships I've been building through this career.
I also get to observe, on a regular basis, all the ways in which a person can work, and all the ways in which I feel gratitude that I do not do any of them. 9-5 office jobs, long lawyer hours, desk jobs, factory jobs, answering to THE MAN. I'm grateful I knew to follow my gut and do what it took to get me here.
I'd rather be a writer for a living, but that's not here yet. It sucks (best word in this instance) that work and earning money take up so much of my time that I have to sacrifice writing hours, or at least my will to write. I could write more in my free time but that would mean less outdoor time, less adventure time, less photo editing time, less mindless wasted time.
I'm trying to read more. With my eyeballs. Words in a book hit deeper in certain parts of the soul than words heard aloud, though those, too, are impactful in their own way. Pam Houston had some words in Deep Creek that I read the other day, words about how deeply she values her alone time on the ranch with her animals, no other humans for days. These words resonated and validated. I seem to still be giving myself a hard time about choosing solitude over companionship. Over wanting my adventures to be just me and the dog and the great big world. Telling myself something needs healing rather than accepting that I don't want to have sex or be with another person or allow occasional bouts of loneliness to lead to regrettable impulsive acts.
I wonder sometimes if I've always wanted to be alone with the animals, but never knew how to give myself that permission?
Edie's box needs changing. It stinks. I loathe the guilt I feel in imagining how much cleaner my apartment will be when she finally kicks the bucket, which these days seems like never. I love her, and I don't wish her gone, but she's a of of work, a lot of which I don't keep up on, and as such have a hairy, slobber-spotted apartment that reeks of dirty litter box. If only I could create the very best, most comfortable, un-threatening, inviting, splash-free, odor-neutralizing litter box for her. And for me.
It's already been almost half an hour. The time flew by and I wrote about, well, nothing. Cat stink, work, wishing I was a writer. Dear Diary type of journaling.
I'M SO HARD ON MYSELF.
How can I possibly get anything done when I hold myself to such impossibly high un-human standards?
I remember an A.R.T. session I did once in which the solution for my problem was to "play" more. Draw for no reason, write whatever, have fun with the pets without focusing on productivity. I'm not doing that. Perhaps my next therapy session could be about abandoning the concept of perpetual productivity.
Like everyone else in the world, I don't really know how to relax.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try.
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spare crow I found laying around the cloud drive
