I’m practicing not rushing.
Rushing towards nothing.
I’m practicing just being here in this moment, however comfortable or uncomfortable it is.
I’m practicing not making plans or proclamations about what “I’m doing with my life” so that I seem all together or somehow “more important” because of all the things I plan to do but haven’t yet done.
I’m practicing being in this moment. The one right here, where I notice the blanket on the couch is covered with blonde dog hair.
I look down and catch the site of my own skin on my leg. A patch that is crinkly, and crepe-like. Skin that is flaky and well, looks old. It’s skin I don’t relate to. It’s skin that should belong to an older person. Certainly that can’t be my skin? And yet it is.
I’m practicing accepting my age and how I don’t relate to the number. How I feel 30 or 35, but how my skin looks 50 something. I’m practicing not caring that I care.
I’m practicing being really present and noticing that, really, I feel the best I’ve ever felt. The most “me” the most relaxed the most "ok" with it all.
And then there’s the skin. Practicing. Accepting.
(This is an excerpt from my writing practice this morning....it's the kind of thing that comes in my writing practice called Bare Bones. It's raw, unedited, real. It's the kind of writing I love to do, and practice on a regular basis.It's the kind of writing that helps me know myself better. It's the kind of writing that then often becomes something else...thanks for reading!)