Last year I reignited my writing practice in a disciplined way by committing to Chelsea Hodson’s Morning Writing Club. During one of those meetings I decided that that day would be my Day #1 of 101 Days. I counted it out and circled those dates in my calendar. This felt playful, random and purposeful. It opened up stream of energy to have a deadline. It gave me another level of fire and accountability to writing and voice, so the days don’t just slip away. My relationship to time is something I’m examining and I like counting my days here on this planet. It’s expansive in the inevitability of its ending.
In those first 101 Days, I also did not commit to publishing a word of anything I wrote because Discernment. Most of those inked pages were used to light the wood stove to keep the hearth going, which is another kind of life giving process.
But by staking out Discernment I wonder if I didn’t deny the actual dungeon of thing that stops me from looking up, stepping into the world and participating; that which stops me from submitting to journals or trying to publish on a larger scale or even here on Substack.
Hence another counting is called for. In these next 20 days I’m betting on the towering fortresses of Judgement. Because that intimidating, critical self-censoring, stultifying and demeaning fear of being judged is my inherited condition that’s lineage like my green eyes, gray hair and diverticulated digestive tract. And may I add—woe is me—the arrogance! Thinking myself so all that that the world is actually waiting to judge me whilst it is being busy being on fire. So Friday, October 4th is circled on my calendar and I look it in the eye.
Regarding other countings:
• There are 84 days until I turn 60, Inshallah, and I’ve said that this will be the last birthday I count. Don’t get me wrong I love my birthday and I am not denying my age. I love cake and the feeling that one day of the year gives me. So it’s not like I’m going to give that up. But for the rest of my time here I am challenging my relationship to the social constructs of ageism and ableism. I want to whittle away at them and deny them their power over me in exchange for trusting the legitimacy of my lived experiences, my voice, by deepening intuition and connection to this body as it is, and this mind as it continues to expand; my curiosity and willingness to create, craft and participate in my life’s purpose.
• The 49 days since after my mother’s death on July 9th, 2024 may her memory be a blessing, ended on August 27th. Forty-nine days is the amount of time described in the Tibetan Book of the Dead that it takes the consciousness to transition through death to rebirth.
• There are 36 more days left until I give her eulogy at her celebration of life ceremony on October 20th, 2024, 2pm at the Unitarian Church in Madison, Wisconsin, all are welcome.
• It took 15 days for the whooping cough booster to become effective so I could visit my grandson again. It’s been 88 days since he was born.
• This morning I’m counting the 22 days since our dog Twin came into our pack and how many training sessions we’ve had which is two so far.
• There are eight days to the Autumnal Equinox and 16 until my son Elijah moves home to Vermont from Chicago.
• The 10 Days of Awe between Rosh Hashanah (Oct. 2nd) through Yom Kippur (Oct. 12th) will be here soon and that’s when I partake in my own ritual listening of Rabbi Sharon Brous on On Being and reread Chapter 9 of Moby Dick, The Sermon.
• It’s been 343 days since October 7th, 2023, when the center of world vortexed into war with itself, violently taking the entirety of humanity with it, as is war’s wont.
• There are 52 days till the presidential election; see the League of Women Voters in how many ways you can participate.
Amy Leach in her essay, The Wild What, writes:
“But here on Earth, Glee and Delinquency and Grimness share terrain. Of course none of them have changed its essentially rapacious nature; we still see how ruthless the spirits can be, as when Joy possess a dog and whacks her tail against a wall over and over, although the dog is whining and her tail is broken. Many times a day a mood sets up a monstrous dominion in the mind; but before it kills us another takes its turn, and no ruler who hands over the reins like that can be called absolute.” (Amy Leach, Things That Are)
In this particularly heady and assertive season of birth & death—each breath of mine is an agony, a mourning, a blessing, a privilege. Every moment is within fetching distance of memory, a mood and a shedding. A rebirth and redeath and so on.
This is where magic is. In the liminal because all life is liminal. Turning the seemingly concrete, opposing and impenetrable towers of mind—into fields of goldenrod and purple aster under a blue sky and a dog’s breath. In the light of the waxing Moon there are three days until it’ll be full again. Counting to zero I begin again.
Thanks for reading. I’m so glad were here together.
Love all of this! But especially, “Every moment is within fetching distance of memory, a mood and a shedding.”
beautiful, & i'm very curious about "the sermon" in moby dick!