Serenity has always been something I’ve strived (striven?) for, which in and of itself is an oxymoron. You shouldn’t work for serenity, right? You should be able to simply sit, breathe, and serenity will just plop itself right down in your lap like a kitty cat and start purring.
Well, yeah, it hasn’t worked like that in my experience. It’s like most cats I’ve ever known, pet them one, then two times, and then the third or fourth time, and you never know which, all of a sudden you have a huge glove made of cat, and all four legs are stretched up your arm, all claws out, trying its dead-level best to see what your muscles and tendons look like under your skin.
Well that escalated quickly, didn’t it? And that’s exactly what happens when I reach for serenity.
And yet, I woke up feeling, well, serene this morning. Maybe because I finally quit reaching, and started finding it in things I’m already doing.
Like activity at levels that I’ve honestly never even thought of…
I just hit three miles on my running yesterday. On 55-year-old, crapped-out knees, I ran three miles. Yesterday. Me. Admittedly my version of running… and an arthritic 70-year-old could probably beat me up the hill running backwards, but I don’t care. Because I’m doing it. For three miles.
And I got the copy edits completed on my second book of the summer yesterday… and it’s NOT perfect, and I let it go to the reviewers anyway. Because I’ve finally stopped letting the perfect be the enemy of the good. It’s never going to be perfect, but it’s good. And it’s going to sell. And if I can sell enough of “She’s Thinking Out Loud” and “This Little Pig” to hire a copy editor for the next book, I will be a happy, happy woman next year… ’cause I’d just as soon never edit my own work again. That is HARD. But it is done… and that makes me feel very serene.
And I got the design completed last week for a project that I’ve been thinking about for SIX MONTHS. That I can’t actually talk about yet because it’s a gift, but I’ll take pictures and post. That’s my afternoon’s work out ahead of me, and I’m really enjoying the thought of it, instead of dreading it. That’s helping the serenity bit, too.
And I was invited to read from This Little Pig at The Garage, in Fort Stockton, on June 11. Which makes the whole thing a real-io deal-io, you know? And so many friends have stepped up to push This Little Pig all over Texas, out to friends everywhere. It’s been an amazing trip.
Some people just apparently do not blossom until they’re older.
Me and Grandma Moses. Late bloomers, baby. That’s her painting, “At the Bend in the River,” painted in 1948, when she was 88 years old. She didn’t even seriously start painting until she was 78… I’m like 23 years ahead of that. Just the thought of that makes me take a deep breath and smile.
Good company, at least, and some paintings are worth upwards of a million bucks. Something to think about when you come to get your signed first edition of This Little Pig at the reading, you know. Just saying…
And Corey Matthew Hannon, love of my life. That’s where serenity lives. Whenever I’m feeling like I’m going to jump out of my skin, I just go find him… and that kitty-cat look that you can see at the top of the page starts to fade from my eyes. I can feel it.
Time to go run. In the mud.
My favorite. Like being five again… 🙂