Images are not arguments, rarely even lead to proof, but the mind craves them… Henry Adams
Practice: When something you see delights you, linger long enough to breathe it in. To let it nourish you. An attentive face, taking in your every word. A sun-dazzled river. Rembrandt’s use of red. Later in the day, check whether you still “see” that image. If not, spend more time taking in the next image you find sustaining.
A client of mine cleared out his emails, every last one, and spent the rest of the day buoyant. Amazed. He hadn’t realized how much they weighed him down.
We save things because at the moment, they matter to us. Our memories are what we’re trying to hold onto, says professional organizer Karen Kingston —with clutter as an unfortunate side effect.
Practice: As you go through the coming week, identify things you might be ready to let go of — anything that no longer fits the person you have become. Look at it. Pick it up, put it down. If you feel ready, ask yourself in a disinterested, kindly fashion whether holding onto it still suits you.
Grapes want to turn to wine. Rumi
Who do you want to turn into? Someone more patient? Serene? Focused? Generous? Someone who is better read? Less sarcastic? Someone who savors each bite?
Photo Courtesy of Raptor Ridge Winery
Practice: Today do something, anything, that displays a quality you wish you had. Repeat as desired. Grapes want to turn into wine. We want to turn into the selves we can imagine being. (I imagine myself giving my work to strangers. Thank you for playing your part.)
“No matter how hard you try, this door will not open.”
Some of the time No is the answer, at least for the time being — a concept that can be difficult to grasp, particularly for people ambitious enough to find their way to a Practice blog. (Or earn an advanced degree, start their own business, run for office, hold out for the right job, cut a demo…) The up side to ambition is optimism and a can-do mentality. The downside is the amount of energy that ambitious people can spend trying to pry open doors that simply will not open.
Practice: Study doors like a housebreaker. Ask yourself how difficult it would be to get a specific door open: “The red one, no way. The blue door looks easy. I can’t tell about the one next to it…” Practice assessing both literal and metaphorical doors. Some of them are ready to open and keep right on opening. Others will not open no matter how hard you push.
I get thirsty people glasses of water, even if that thirsty person is just me. Annie Lamott
Practice: If getting a glass of water sounds easy, commit to a day of getting yourself one each time you’re thirsty. If that’s too high a hurdle — and it well may be — ask yourself a couple times a day whether you are thirsty. More than a few people have told me they had no idea. Their lives had required losing touch with their needs. If that’s the case, once a day invite yourself to notice if you’d like a glass of water. That’s all. Just notice. No need to force yourself to change: awareness leads to change.
For many of us, there’s a gap between the compass and the clock — between what’s important to us and the way we spend our time. Stephen Covey
Everyone has good days and bad days. That’s pretty much a given. What is not a given is what you mean when you call a day good or bad. The cult of productivity defines a good day as one filled with accomplishment, a clock-driven assumption. A bad day is one you “waste.”
But some part of you needs time to drift and dream. What looks like procrastination may be incubation. Drifting and dreaming can strengthen your resolve. Make you a better lover or leader or problem-solver. The urge to “do nothing” may be your compass talking — possibly in a language you’re just learning to speak.
Practice: You’ve completed a task or ended a conversation and you’re feeling good. Is what you feel clock-satisfaction (no small thing) or compass-satisfaction? When you can’t tell, sit with not knowing. At the beginning, most people find compass-satisfaction harder to discern.
The email a client sent me went astray. When I failed to respond to a message I hadn’t received, she told herself I was done with her. Ouch.
We all write fictions: sad ones, happy ones, infuriating ones. We make up stories and some of the stories we make up hurt our feelings. Spike our blood pressure. Affect our families.
Practice: Invite yourself to notice one of your gloomy fictions: I won’t find a place to park. The baby will wake up cranky. We’ll get audited. Keep writing fiction but add something preposterous: I won’t find a place to park because the street will be jammed with bagpipers. In full regalia.
As long as you’re writing fiction, make up stories that entertain you. (Hey, look: there’s a parking spot.)
The castle was what was once called abustle, which meant extremely busy, with cross people running around at cross-purposes in every direction except straight up. Terry Pratchett, I Shall Wear Midnight
I don’t know about you, but I can produce this phenomenon all by myself. What’s more, when I’m in bustle mode everything I do seems worthwhile. It isn’t, of course.
Abustle is merely an example of a trance state. (Zoned out in front of a computer is another, opposite one.) People in busy, bustling trances — often those who concluded in childhood that their work was their worth — are susceptible to running in all directions.
Taking a deep breath helps. So does stopping for a cup of tea or going for a walk: any activity that disrupts the trance. The obstacle is that many of us were taught to associate busyness with virtue.
Practice: Write down the virtue(s) you associate with busyness.
A few months ago, a client who raises hens gave me a carton of eggs — and upped the fun factor by identifying each hen’s contributions. I grinned every time I opened the carton.
Practice: If it’s hard for you to say Hello, start by smiling at some of the people you encounter. If smiling at strangers is a habit (it is for me, but I grew up in a small town), advance to saying Hello. If you’re comfortable greeting people, consider getting them to laugh.
Ed Conn