Short Answer: More Savouring, Less Griping.
Longer Answer: A few years ago, I took up the habit of writing a poem every morning. I didn’t revise them, or publish them, or show them to family or friends. I just wrote them.
This non-fiddling, anti-perfecting wasn’t at all like me. It felt like trying on being a different person. A cooler person. A person I’d want to be friends with if I wasn’t already walking around inside their skin.
A person who complained less, rushed less, did less micromanaging or grandiose planning.
A person who laughed more, created more, had more ideas percolating and more Technicolor dreams at night.
Here’s the thing, though. I got busy. Life kept filling itself up, an overnight bag trying to pack for a month: earplugs, Pop tarts, an accordion? Might need those. A curling iron, ice skates, another Master’s degree? Why not? Toss in those seventeen unread novels, the baby’s crib, and the shiny espresso machine. You never know when they’ll come in handy.
There wasn’t a day I decided to stop. Once, I just looked up and wasn’t a woman who wrote a poem every day any more. This is my letter to that woman, asking her to come by for a visit. To stay a while.