“… Spiritual practice is making the bed, defrosting the dinner, and so on. It’s not magical or removed; it’s about how I discover and reveal myself as I do things that are ordinary.” – Miriam Polster,  IN SWEET COMPANY: CONVERSATIONS WITH EXTRAORDINARY WOMEN ABOUT LIVING A SPIRITUAL LIFE

Generally, when I sit myself down at the computer to write an article or a story it’s because some nub of an idea is pestering me to give it its time in the sun. A fragment of conversation, a line from a movie, a powerful image or poignant memory repeat again and again in my brain. This mind-stuff congeals into the first line of the piece and I’m off and running. Words course through my fingertips like M & M’s spilling into a candy dish — sometimes one pretty M at a time, sometimes as a niagara of language. I never know where the  first sentence will take me, and I am always surprised at where I end up. I let it rip when the current is swift and ride out the debris that temporarily passes for writing because I love the crest of a congruent Voila!

This morning I hunkered down at my computer waiting for the river to run, but no instant replay of compelling conversations or movies, no internal images or memories sailed the choppy mental waters of Lake Margaret. I’ve been thinking about “transparency,” about the need to tell the truth, or your truth; to be forthcoming and honest about what you think and feel. The risk, the fear of putting it out there. The leap of faith that can free you from the strain of keeping things on the down low.  Genuine transparency — transparency that incorporates kindness and respect — brings in the Light and mitigates pain. It makes the space for transformation to occur. But that’s all I got. I thought about writing about the British Petroleums and the Madoffs and the Tigers who’ve been everything but transparent, the messes they made, yadda yadda yadda. But nothing about all that floats my boat. 
   
I went into the kitchen and ate a tangerine. When I sat back down at the computer, the only thing swimming around in my head was the thought that I needed to call my hairdresser and have her trim the twist of hair she missed last time she cut my hair. Not much else I can say about that one.

Other things drifted in and out of my mind: that my Elvis drinking cup is lookin’ shabby; that putting on a new pair of white socks is one of life’s little pleasures. This gets me thinking about the Everyday Sacred, about finding the Sacred in the ordinary, in the little things, but where do I go from there?

So here I sit. Waiting. Watching. Listening to the wind. Maybe what this piece is supposed to be about is letting go of my need to know where I’m going when the pressure is on, to just be in the moment and let that be enough.

Whaddya know! I’ve do believe I’ve got myself a blog post after all.

Your thoughts?