No writing.

I have thought about writing.

Many exciting topics came up.

First sentences, story-arches, messages.

It was all there.

But I couldn’t.

Well, I could, but it felt more natural not to.

Sometimes I write four, five blogs in a couple of hours.

Sometimes I don’t write for weeks.

There is no consistency, there is no plan that I know of, there’s no urge to feed the algorithms.

I either write, or I don’t.

It’s really easy to tempt myself with thoughts of likes and confirmation, with the expectation of appreciation and words of gratefulness.

But there I am, not writing.

Listening to what’s needed.

Making space for whatever wants to be done.

And then doing it.

Without a plan (well, there probably is one anyway).

Without a goal, except getting comfortable with just being created, the little me, the activities, the thoughts, but that’s not even a goal.

I am not worried about being out of the picture.

I am not anxious about having to show up and be on people’s minds.

It is all so easy, and simple, and gentle, and effortless.

One step, then another, and so it goes.

No writing.

Until there is.

Who knew life could be this way?

Who knew?



(Photo by @evit, for Unsplash)

Just holding it.

Just holding it.

Slow learning.

Slow learning.