Run That Body Down

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?  -Mary Oliver

I am not sure how to begin again. These muscles feel rusted. I’ll start by saying that my whole life I’ve never stopped writing. Along with reading, it’s perhaps my only consistent practice; running, yoga, meditation, climbing and art are all intermittent, cycling in and out of my life like seasons. But I don’t think I’ve ever gone longer than a couple months without at least scrawling something in my journal. Writing for public consumption on the other hand, this shouting into the void I used to do? That feels unfamiliar now. Truly, I’m not sure I even know how. 

Nearly six years have passed since I last attempted to write here. I’m struggling to explain exactly why I took such a long break, since chalking it up to a 70 month writer’s block seems a little ridiculous. 

If I try and think it through, it’s easy to blame COVID. For me there is a stark division between life pre-pandemic and life post-pandemic. An imaginary BC/AD demarcation. Like all of us, the pandemic caused me to spend more time on screens than I ever had before. And it turns out, screen time makes you dull. Or at least made me dull. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved my foray into reality television. I’m now well-versed on many facets of the Bravo universe. I’ve also seen some of the best of humanity via Instagram- I’m so amazed by how funny and cute and creative and caring we can be. Substack has been a gift, exposing me to so many incredible writers and new ideas.

I’m realizing though, unfortunately, that whatever we consume digitally has to actually be digested in some way. Really this probably applies to everything we are exposed to. And that metabolization process? It made me sluggish. Ultimately, all the overstimulation led to a kind of desensitization. With so much input I found it almost impossible to have any creative output. This torpidity, along with a healthy dose of imposter syndrome, made me feel like I’d never write anything for anyone else to read ever again. After each new adventure my in-laws, my biggest (and perhaps my only) fans, would ask when my next blog was coming. But it felt impossible. To be honest, I felt completely depleted.  

The version of me who works and travels both seasonally and internationally has always been my favorite version of myself. The best version of me, I might argue. This is not necessarily because of the excitement or glamour or adventure. For me, foreignness forces presence. Being abroad somewhere completely unfamiliar causes me to feel so shaken outside of myself that being present comes naturally. I’m able to immerse myself in observing whatever new world is around me with ease, with beginner’s mind, and with delight. I suspect living fully in each moment is the key to real happiness, and travel has always felt like a shortcut to get to that place. 

In my day-to-day now I have to almost physically shake myself into the current moment. I try to practice yoga and meditation, to practice presence as a way to fight against routine. Be here now. For me to be able write well, I have to be a full participant in my life. But it’s hard. My friends somehow operate like machines, still so vibrant while balancing work and family and friendship and vacation and chores. Watching them I wonder how they do it all. I suppose I’m still learning. 

Maybe this is my version of a mid-life crisis, but all that to say, I’d like to bring back my public writing practice. I’m hoping it can be an anchor as I attempt to replace escapist pleasure with real pleasure that actually nourishes me. Writing serves as a nice reminder for me to slow down and be fully awake to my own life. I want to cultivate spaciousness, and to remember that I am alive, and that I deserve to feel that way all the time. No more postponing joy.

Ultimately, this goal seems achievable: To stay open to the simple delights and gifts we receive just by paying attention to the world around us. Please be nice to me while I remember how.