Writing day: organizing and planning for future interviews and columns, which takes more work than one might suspect. It's the background hidden labour that will bear fruit down the road. Today I have almost too many ideas. Which is better than too few.
Something I'd like to figure out for my own children: how to involve them in the larger world, how to bring into their privileged and comfortable lives a desire to care for others, to be aware of need and sensitive to it; and to accept help, too. To treat everyone with dignity and respect. I'm not sure how to write a 600 word column on a subject I haven't got a firm fingerhold on myself; but I want to know more. Where in my own life am I lacking this kind of compassion? How can I find time and space to do more? Where to begin? Small, I'm thinking. (Shoot--I should have accepted that cough candy from the Mormons
When Kevin broke his knee last winter, and I was run ragged trying to keep up with the demands of our life, I realized that despite my most sincere wishes otherwise, doling out seemingly endless help wasn't bringing out the best in me or making me a finer, more patient person; instead, I felt squeezed like an empty toothpaste tube. I had nothing left to give. A smile to a grocery store clerk felt like more emotion and empathy than I could manage. But I still believe it's always possible to give more, just in increments, like the way your body can stretch just that little bit farther when you're holding a posture in yoga and following your breath.
But it comes to me: without that breath, farther isn't possible.
Maybe that's the key.
Oh dear. My morning has been thrown out of whack! Have to fly. Unexpected arrivals all over the place today.
Labels: work, writing day