This sit didn’t really work. I never went deep, skimming the surface of relaxation and the now. No monkey mind, more just thinking about things I need to do. No anxiety, but plans and deliberations. Still, I sat. My hips stiff, my jeans a little too tight. Still, I sat. My fingers and nose cold, because the heat doesn’t quite reach up to my bedroom. Still, I sat.

And I will again tomorrow.

Today I look over this post in its brevity and wonder if it says anything or everything. And yet, I write.

And I will again tomorrow.


Flowers from a springtime walk.

Afterthought: I am finding more comfort in the word “practice” rather than “habit.” I want to hone my practices of writing and meditating. For some reason, if they become habits, I believe they will lose their meaning — become part of a less meaningful routine. One can always grow by writing; the same things goes for meditation. I’m not a fan of “practice makes perfect,” because perfection is not my goal. I don’t really have a goal. I just want to practice these crafts and learn from them.


3 thoughts on “Practice

  1. In response to reading Emma, I once wrote a paper on how one’s manners, overs time, become one’s manner. The professor didn’t quite get it. But I think the same is true of your idea of practice.

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