On waking up to write every morning
Today, I want to write about why I do this—why I wake up early and take the trouble to get up, go upstairs, and make some coffee. I’ve been wondering about this these past few days. Why make myself go through it? Why not just stay in bed and sleep an extra hour? Such a nice, soft, warm bed.
Every day I tell myself the same thing: “You’ll feel much better if you do!” And it’s true! I don’t know of any tonic that’s as good for my mood, energy, and mental health as a solid hour of writing in the morning before life starts. It feels like a luxury, really, having the time to do this, and I’m grateful. It’s just me, the sunrise, my dog sitting next to me, and the sound of the pen as it scratches meaning on paper, echoing in the silent dining room.
I’ve been writing this way for a bit over a year now. Mostly, I write in my journal, and lately (literally these past week or so) I’ve started writing for my blog. I’ve come to appreciate that the less I try, the more beneficial my writing time is. I never think about what I’ll write today—unless I have something specific I want to personally talk about or work through. Right now, I find that the best attitude is to think that I’m responsible for bringing myself to the table, and then it’s up to my pen and my hand to actually put things down. It certainly feels like that sometimes, as if I’m just here reading the words as they’re scratched on the paper, watching the ink dry, while another part of me puts down what it wants to say.
Whenever I do try too hard, things end up feeling forced. The other part of me—that mysterious wellspring—wants to take my pen down different paths. Whenever I let it, just observe, is when I end up feeling more rested and energetic at the end.
Sometimes I know what I’m going to talk about before I start (like today), and other times I start with an idea and end up talking about something completely different (like the post about the origins of fear from some days ago). Thankfully, I’m no professional writer; no one is paying me to write about one specific topic, so I have the freedom to let myself “relax” into it and let my subconscious wander where it will, savoring different pastures.
I’ve found that my ramblings always have some reason. I guess it’s more or less like dreaming (if you subscribe to Jung’s ideas about dreams), where everything in your dream is a symbol trying to tell you something. I feel it’s similar with writing this way, albeit to a lesser extent. Sometimes I’m even surprised by the choice of words—using words I normally wouldn’t use—and I’ve learned to recognize parts that come out in colorful language (or semi-poetry) as my mind telling me that part is specifically important for me right now, especially charged with meaning and emotion that needs to resort to metaphors and poetry to capture it.
I feel like my role here is more like that of the sculptor than the composer (though maybe composers are also sculptors?). My job is to bring out, to discover the story, not to shape it. As soon as I start to judge, I start to control, and end up warping the thing into an unnatural shape, one that’s not its own. When you create, don’t judge, don’t control, but discover. Whatever you find is perfect; it’s what it was meant to be when it called upon you to find it.
So, why do I do this? Because I love it.
🌳