Writing, reading, dreaming, praying.
Peter is out, the house is quiet save for the rhythmic ticking of the mantle clock and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen next door. Soft lamplight draws shadows on the walls as I sit curled under a blanket, pen in hand, a white blanket of possibility on my lap.
In the stillness, thoughts run through my head on the next ‘meaningful’ topic I could write about.
No subject comes to mind.
Writing is an activity I have an engaged in almost daily since I was nine years old. I have journal after journal chronicling childhood holidays in minute detail (down to the hour we had dinner and what we ate…), teenage hopes, dreams, crushes, fears, disappointments. More recently the words and sentences have turned from a record of memories to musings on subjects and people that catch the attention of my mind and heart.
Little thrills me more than beginning a new journal – fresh, crisp pages ready to capture my thoughts as they tumble down; sometimes logically, often in a jumble that may only make sense to me. Writing is part of me but when life if full it is a part that is pushed into hibernation along with reading, dreaming and praying. Some days there seems to be only enough hours to get the urgent things done while the important things slip quietly, almost unnoticed to the periphery.
Last year I read a book of letters by the Dutch priest Henri Nouwen to his nephew, Marc. In the first letter Nouwen writes, ‘…if I were to let my life be taken over by what is urgent, I might very well never get around to what is essential. It’s so easy to spend your whole time being preoccupied with urgent matters and never starting to live, really live.’
Intention.
Almost without choosing to, I let the urgent things dictate how I spend my working days. In my leisure, I allow the quick fixes of sound bites on the internet and binge watching TV series replace the activities that give me life; many days that seems easier.
I want to live with more intention, choosing not to allow dust to collect on the important things; choosing instead to pursue those things that make me who I am.
