I need real advice.
The thought hits hard as I press 10-lb weights, standing on my too-thin, cat-scratched yoga mat, lifting them fifteen times overhead. I’m up at 6 a.m.—finally early—to hone my voice. I shifted bedtime to 10 p.m. for this hope. And here it is: a clear, booming M-80 of a thought.
But now that the buried treasure is unearthed… where am I again?
There is so much noise. Minor opinions rattle in my mind—from my dead grandma’s Castrol and cocoa oil remedies to whether I should take estrogen for menopause, or which stock to invest in. The hardest, most stubborn tumor of the noise is people’s needs. Damn, those disturb my equilibrium. If not stated explicitly, they ripple like a thousand eel tails beneath my bare feet.
And so that’s why I’m up at 6 a.m. Because the novelist Haruki Murakami whispered it to me. Not directly—more like sweet nothings in my ear via audiobook on my run two days ago. Three hours each morning, he writes.
His discipline—toward writing, toward his body—elevated his methods, and I followed suit. Two hours earlier to bed. Up two to three hours earlier. Half my progress notes are done. Stretches, pushups, situps—done.
I’m hopeful and skeptical of this change. Skeptical because habits I’m over the moon about tend to fall away like pixie dust. Hopeful because maybe this one won’t.
Besides wanting to paint the old schoolhouse desk Dried Thyme green today, the day is wide open. The free $15 grocery coupon needs to be used, a run is in the cards, and a hand-drawn Valentine’s birthday card for Papa needs to go in the USPS box. I finally finished Children of Time and can leave those alien spiders behind to venture into Hidden Pictures, a much-needed thriller to sink my teeth into.
New books excite me. So does finishing one. The hard part is stepping from one world to the next—reorienting to the new author’s steering – settling into the passenger seat, deciding whether I trust the ride or need to tuck and roll out. I bail on books. If you break my trust, I’m out. A friend could give it the highest praise and I’d still bow out. I even stopped reading The Let Them Theory because of this.
Hearing it’s Friday the 13th earlier triggered an image of that red-and-white-striped, black-hat-wearing, Edward-Scissorhands-looking guy—and a sudden yearning to cuddle with my Dave as a horror show plays. That’s the same Dave I recently told that this feels like our best year of marriage yet. There’s a light playfulness to us lately, like a lingering romantic-movie moment—my leg lifting slightly behind me, head tilted, thinking how dreamy he is.
Oh, puke. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 