riverwrites

The Gift of Unproductive Days

What is it about unproductive days? Or even whole weeks? And what’s with this elevated demand on myself and heightened self-criticism?

 

Yesterday I acquired a new client, completed two deadlines, finished some old business, reorganized my office and even gave in to spontaneous inspiration and wrote creatively. I even read several chapters in the new book I just got from the library.

So why was I feeling that I was somehow stuck in a funk?

I felt like I was stuck on that proverbial hamster wheel. And I felt unproductive.

My activities were clouded by that terrible old “oh boy, you are wasting time!” mantra. And because of that (yes, I will blame the clumsy foibles of the day on that murky self-criticism, not on a natural character flaw that I am simply awkward and careless), I tripped over one mishap after another.

• While cleaning the toilet, my reading glasses slid off my head and splashed in the cleansing film (Think: the glass is half full – my glasses are now very clean!)

 

• While vacuuming the floor, I lost 3 bobby pins, my best sewing needle, the corner of my bed sheet, a dime, and my “to do” list as it blew off the desk from the air stirred by my activity and landed in the precise place I was turning with the vacuum head. (Think: the glass is half full – the vacuum cleaner works really well!)

 

• I misplaced (OK, maybe I lost them) my daughter’s keys. So I also lost an hour of time traipsing back and forth from the car to the house too many times to recall. I emptied my purse and my brief case, cleaned out the car, and reorganized my desk before finally deciding to go to her dad’s work place (in another car) to get his spare key. (Think:  the glass is half full - I was touched by inspiration as I admired the humor and skill of the artwork at F.B. Fogg where he works).

 

• While driving my daughter’s convertible out to my sister’s house (too fast) on a country road that is (almost always) void of other cars, I suddenly noticed that someone’s trash can was too close to the edge of the road. But by some fluke, another car was racing toward me, so I couldn’t veer into the other lane. I hit the trash can and knocked loose the passenger rear view mirror. (Think: the glass is half full – I just happen to have a brand new tube of super glue!)

 

And this is just a sampling… the day was full of clumsy mishaps.

 But as I settle in at the river’s edge at dusk and reflect on these events, framed by my hyper-critical reprimands, I realize that my glass is not at all half full!

It is now, in the quiet moments of the day and the rising moon’s reflection on the still water before me, that I hear the words of the psalmist: “my cup overflows”.

I contemplate, and I hear more: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Thou art with me… Thou dost anoint my head with oil and my cup overflows…”

Yes! I laugh out loud. I see it all now in bright clarity:

• Nakaima Sama has been blowing bubbles all day long and the swirling wind brought them to me, stalling so they would hover over me and mist me with a cleansing spray as they popped one by one;
• My muse is dancing in my shadow, distracting me from practical tasks, kicking up fairy dust to cloud my vision;
• My cup overflows with God’s full spirit and creative spices.

 

I see it all now – the ideas and visions are saturating me, oozing from my pores like hard-earned sweat. That unproductive feeling was nothing more than a higher demand to go into incubation.

Sure, I might very well be clumsy and careless, but these character flaws are irrelevant in the bigger picture. You see, the blessings of the Dream Giver are so much bigger than any human effort to overcome personal flaws. The Giver of Creativity protects as it fills its cups with this powerful potion.

Oh my, I can not write quickly enough to capture all the visions, but it causes me no fret for a gift is a gift forever. The gift of the visions is in me and I know it.

As I take in the night fall at the close of what I thought was an unproductive day, I listen to the overflow at the brim of my cup. My eyes close, pulling up the corners of my mouth and I drift into the lullabye of the river, the forefather, Nakaima Sama, my muse, the bubbles, the wind, and the Dream Giver: “it is well; it is well with my soul!”

Let the Still Waters Come

Like a billowing sheet,

the waters roll in from beyond and lap at my feet.

Cool, quiet, and dark,

let the still waters come.

 

A gentle call comes from the unseen depths

“Let Go”, the waters sing;

“Let Go”, the ripples urge.

(Let Go) the echo gives emphasis a place to linger…

 

Cool, quiet, and dark,

Let the still waters come.

 

The tide mirrors the moon’s ascent;

feet sink, roots deepen,

waters rise,

coaxing release.

 

Easy, trusting, and yes, still dark.

 

Clenched fists unfold;

breath lengthens, morphs into thoughts

that evaporate into the stars,

and breath returns

as new breath.

 

Let the still waters come and drench my body.

Let the still waters come and drown my fears.

Let the still waters come and loosen the pain,

shrivel the hurt, and rinse away the broken promises.

 

Still dark; still silent; still release.

Still.

Still go.

 

Let the still waters come.

 

Let.

Still.

Come.

Go.

Let.

Go.

Let go.

Cool, quiet, and dark,

Let the still waters come.

 

As I release,

the momentum of the rising

takes hold and quickens.

 

As I give in, I am taken.

Welcome the waters

and welcome is returned.

 

Speeding, spinning, lifting, turning.

ever coaxing, ever calling.

Rest in its buoyancy;

expand to meet the lucid boundaries.

 

Easy, trusting, and yes, still dark.

Cool, quiet, and dark,

Let the still waters come.

At the Threshold of Morning

Now at the river’s edge – it is dusk, light enough to see the page, and dark enough to feel that I am still at the threshold of morning.

 

What a wonderful place to be – at the threshold of morning! Here, there is the promise of light, warmth, and time. Being at the threshold of morning is standing in an open doorway; it is an invitation to life. I can see the smile that welcomes me. Me! “Hi River”, the day calls me by name!

 

The restless night falls from my tight shoulders and slides down my stiff muscles. The gentle winds carry off the doubts and worries that I dodged through the night. The river’s current lures me to follow her steady movement forward. “Don’t be afraid,” she sings, “for I am here, always and forever.”

 

She is echoed and accompanied by the birds in the trees that frame my back. Their song is behind me, before me, and all around me. I would not be surprised if they descended with jewels and fine clothing in their beaks to dress me as they did Snow White.

 

Here, settled on cool concrete against my buttocks and nestled amongst rocks the size of cows, I am keenly aware of the stability of antiquity and the absolute assurance of hope. Yes, there is always a new day and each new day adds colors to the core of my existence.

 

Oh look! There goes a doe, lumbering leisurely along the ridge on the other side of the river! She stops before entering the forest to graze. Yes, I hear your message. I too, will nourish myself today before I enter my own forest.

 

Ah, the eastern sky is turning pink. It is coming closer. I step away from the rocks to lie on my back next to the river. Listening to her movement, I notice that it matches the flow of my blood. My friend and I will lie here together at the threshold of morning and watch as the new day brings the illumined pink sky slowly overhead.

Hanging in the Breeze

“Hanging” implies effort – effort to hang and not drop; effort to hold on against the force of a breeze that threatens to loosen my grip; effort to not let go. “Hanging” implies an effort to keep what perhaps is not meant to be kept.

 

Effort is certainly a necessary verb that we need in order to live, but I really don’t like the image of hanging in the breeze. That effort seems ludicrous, certainly vain.

 

What’s wrong with letting go? What’s wrong with being blown about a bit? What’s wrong with loosing my grip, my strong-hold, my “stationary” position in life?

 

I argue that nothing is wrong with any of these things! I argue only that hanging in the breeze is not for me. I’d much rather embrace the breeze and flap along in its strange, powerful, yet oh so enticing movement.

 

Yes, hanging on is not what I do best, nor anything I yearn to acquire.

 

Flap in the breeze;

Sail in the breeze;

Sing in the breeze;

Flow in the breeze;

Surrender to the breeze….

These are the efforts I defend.

 

Effort is still required, but it is an effort to let go as opposed as an effort to hold on. As a firm believer in the concept of life as evolutionary, I am much more inclined to put my effort to release.