“I don’t have time for this,” I thought.
9am. Monday morning.
Sam’s face appeared on the zoom screen.
I wished he hadn’t.
Sam is my writing partner and we show up at the start of the week for each other to hold space and write. Only life had got in the way and he’d cancelled a couple of sessions and so had I and I hadn’t written a thing for two weeks and had no intention of doing so.
I’d simply gone off writing, no big deal. And I had better things to do with my time today. My to-do list was short but required tackling and I was in a dynamo mode.
But here he was, and here I was, so despite not being in the mood (and nearly pretending to write while actually getting on with my to-do list), I promised Sam I would pick up my pen and open my notepad and check back in with him in an hour.
Three minutes in and I realised that for the past two weeks I had forgotten myself.
So full of rushing and productivity and working like a bitch. Achieving, ticking off my tasks, succeeding at stuff. Being clear, ignoring courses I had signed up for but was committed to not taking, single-minded focussed and alive with the vitality I was feeling and the results I was getting.
As my pen hit the page, I came back to myself.
I remembered that writing is always and only the way I come back to myself.
I remembered that my intention this year was to spiral deep, instead of running fast.
I remembered my commitment to others above myself.
I remembered that this requires space, time and simplicity.
I remembered my body, the tears at the lowest point of my breath and a deep sadness.
I remembered it all.
I felt sick as I realised the task list I had spent all day Friday organising and scheduling and, but for Sam, would have spent implementing was not mine.
It belonged to the woman I am when I forget myself.
That the upsells, downsells, conversion percentages, additional workshops, new facebook groups, Mother’s Day promotions and discount codes - none of them were necessary.
I was startled at how lost I had become and how quickly it had happened.
I wrote for an hour and at the end I found myself discomfited.
Irritated, because before Sam showed up, I was on fire, revved up with a mind as sharp and clear as ice.
Now I felt cloudy, inexplicably miserable and in a bad mood.
“Fuck you, Sam,” I said as we finished the call.
“Same time next week?”