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A.R. Stanley

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I bought a bright red bullet journal in 2019 to use in 2020. Around October 2019, I started doodling in that audacious little book. I created my opening pages for the coming year, and through that process, I realized my word for 2020 should be Permission. It all felt bold, scary, thrilling. I started 2020 like no other year. I stayed in an Air B&B, watched comedy, worked on my bullet journal, wrote, journaled, and told my then-husband over the phone when he called hysterical that yes, I did want a divorce. I could in no way keep doing what we were doing.
I’ve started to give thought to posture this year. It feels like a challenge to overcome. What stance does one take in order to Flourish? What a big, grand, audacious word to pick for ones year. I’ve thought about posture in the context of my word for the year, in the context of this blog, where do I see it going, and what is it I’m doing? In the context of writing books, in creating an online and in-person shop. In the context of who am I, really?
The snow has melted, and the ground has returned to the crunchy, frozen, dead, brown leaves that covered the earth before. Looking out my window the world appears gray, hard, uninviting. I have no desire to leave the comfort of my cozy studio for the cold that has descended upon us.
My earbuds, pounding music into my mind, create a weird dichotomy as I look out my window into the pitch, still, blackness of the night. It yells quiet, calm, nothingness. My ears hear a loud, pounding drum line that gives way to a melodic guitar. My surroundings feel calm and quiet, while my mind is anything but. Thoughts race and flit from one topic to the next. My brain feels heavy and tired from the cares of everyday life; finances, school, medications, errands. The things that make up the ins and outs of our days. I long to shake them off and only carry the things worth caring for. If only it were that simple, to shake it away, the worries, the frustrations, to wake refreshed, holding those things precious to you, and only those. The feelings and well-being of those I love, dreams, hopes, the Spirit. How I long to carry only those.
I sit in my new spot in my studio this morning. At the beginning of the new year, I decided it was time to take everything out of the studio, clean, add more organization, and rethink the space. I’m glad I did it, I’m glad Katie helped. She built me new shelves for my books and journals. We hung shelves I already owned for pencils, brushes, and paints. I moved my writing desk to the other window, a new nook, a new start. I’m unclear why I’ve not put the writing desk in this spot. Perhaps my old desk was too big. I’m not sure. I’m glad it’s here, with a new perspective, a new feeling, new possibilities. I’m watching the snow slowly fall to the ground and cover the little side garden I had all but forgotten was on the side of my house. Small dark gray and white birds are playing in the bushes. I have no idea what kind of bird it is; my bestie would know. I’m content to watch them from the safety of my studio.
I wake up to the sound of rain on the windows. The small splashing of the drops hitting the panes and bursting open as they trail down in a path to the bottom of the window. Ping, ping, patter, ping. The world is dark around me. It is too early for the white morning light to begin to peek over the horizon. I burrow down into my warm covers, not ready to start my day. My legs ache from the weekend activities, my best intentions of waking early and going for a run turn to excuses in my mind. Running on Saturday, going up and down the steps countless times as we cleaned out the house, carrying recycling and trash to the bins in the alley, hiking on Sunday, it is catching up to my leg muscles, and they groan at the thought of pushing them this early. Not in the rain, not in the dark, five more minutes, you should write instead. Ok, I’ll write instead. You’ve convinced me.

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