Unforgivable mistakes
Hello, friends!
I’m writing this Monday afternoon. Today marks the end of a short vacation. Ordinarily, at a time like this, I’d be feeling a bit of the “Sunday scaries” (I didn’t realize this feeling had a name until recently), but I’m feeling pretty good right now.
I began this vacation with just one expectation: I’d make serious progress on The Dark Age.
I did the exact opposite, I’m happy to report.
I did write on the first day or two of my little break, that’s true, but it wasn’t long before I let myself…stop. I didn’t realize how much I needed to just rest my brain. So I switched my priority, and didn’t write a word for the rest of the week. In fact, this is the first time I’ve sat down at a computer in a week.
Last year—I forget exactly when or how—I came across this poem by Raymond Carver:
Rain
Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgiveable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
That’s more or less how I spent today, in fact. I woke late, took a short walk, journaled a bit, then lost myself in a book until lunch. After that (gigantic) meal, I lay in bed, alternately reading and napping, for nearly five hours. My whole week went something like this; I spent most of it reading and watching silly movies and staying up late and sleeping in. And walking. Despite our current heat wave, my little morning walk streak remains unbroken.
So: Zero significant progress on my own book, but also zero guilt about that fact.
In an April edition of Subtle Maneuvers, Mason Currey wrote about May Sarton, citing one of her journal entries:
A strange empty day. I did not feel well, lay around, looked at daffodils against the white walls, and twice thought I must be having hallucinations because of their extraordinary scent that goes from room to room. I always forget how important the empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produce anything, even a few lines in a journal. I am still pursued by a neurosis about work inherited from my father. A day where one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The most valuable thing we can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room, not try to be or do anything whatever. Tonight I do feel in a state of grace, limbered up, less strained.
After a week or such empty days I feel similarly. Rested, maybe even invigorated. Tomorrow I shall return to my regular morning schedule: Up early, a walk, some journaling, some reading with breakfast, and a bit of novel progress before my design job begins. Whatever writing gains I missed out on this week seem minor indeed compared to the rejuvenation I am feeling.
Now, with a few more hours before this vacation ends, I am off to watch another silly movie, or begin reading another enjoyable book (my forty-fifth read of the year so far)—what book will I choose? Something joyful, I think.
✏️Until next time,
Jg
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