Small Steps or the Beauty of Ordinary Things

I was thinking about the cathartic and gestalt effects of journal writing. Sometimes when I write toward the pain it feels released, like massaging a sore muscle. Maybe my notebook and blog are my wailing wall.

As a child I wrote down my worries and confessions on scraps of paper, and brought them in to Mr. Brown, the psychologist I visited once a week. I called them my black spots. What black spots, what prayers will I fold and slip into my wailing wall today?

Dear God help me to keep on painting and writing and playing music.

I need help mustering the courage and stamina to sort through my dusty piles of paper, organize my studio to function better. The mess haunts me and it is now an overwhelming task. Why do I save things? I am sentimental. It feels cruel to throw away old cards and letters, so I avoid doing it. Now it is ridiculous.

In receive-mode the little things in life can have a huge impact. A shower or a walk can change my outlook for the better. It is profound and subtle, like moving a boulder a quarter of an inch. I try not to skip over the little things. Routines are grounding. As a child I often wondered if my mother would have been grounded, fulfilled, even kind, if she hadn't had everything done for her by her maid.

Don't discount the little things. Newly washed sheets on the bed. A walk in the sunshine. A smile exchanged with a passerby. Little is big.

Last night I had to raise the glass shelf in the fridge, the one we had lowered to fit the turkey. I took it out and washed it with hot water before replacing it at the usual level. The glass was so sparkling that I cleaned the other shelves. I was surprised by my resulting happiness.

Yesterday I ran into J who told me he loves to wear ladies stockings. "It feels great doesn't it, to wear squeezy clothing sometimes," I said.
"Yeah" he said, "Especially down there."

I have seen J with lipstick and eye makeup wearing a dress, stockings and lady shoes, with his hair braided in two pig tails. No matter, we always delight in a little chat. He writes science fiction and usually carries his writing notebook with him. He told me one day that he had been a fetal alcohol baby. He is one of my favorite local characters. I am glad it is safe for him to be himself and live in our beloved city.

In receive-mode my morning walks can resonate with me all day. Time moves slowly, replaying the little chats in my head. Everything is poignant, precious, and fleeting, like leaves floating down a river.

I hope my stubbed toe heals fast. I miss my long walks. They are necessary for grounding and balancing.

I'm listening to WCRB classical radio during their current fundraiser rather than have silence. Even the fundraising is a companion.