Things Happen

The notebook I was gifted read “MAKE THINGS HAPPEN” in bold, sparkly letters across the middle of the cover. The giver meant well; she thinks of me as a genuine go-getter and assumed this notion would inspire me. It’s been sitting on my shelf for three and a half years, every page blank.

I’ve been working with a writer soulsister friend on this whole notion of creativity and part of our practice involves writing three pages every morning, no matter what. If I have to wake up at 4:00am to write my pages before I start my day, I will sleepily drone on about the injustices of being given this desire to spark my creativity with a cup of coffee the size of my head resting at my forearm… but I get them done. I’m sure half of my pages at this point are a sincere compilation of my deep hatred for having been born a person who is made to seek. It’s a nice quality and all, but don’t the other people get so much more sleep?

At any rate, these morning pages have been clarifying and somewhat intoxicating. When I’m given a blank page with a sense of commitment sans rules, my mind falls quiet. It falls just quiet enough for me to be able to hear my soul. Some people call it their intuition, God, the light, the spirit, the inner voice, the higher self. To me, it’s all of them or none of them, because who am I to know? To me, it doesn’t matter what its name is. I can call it anything or nothing and it doesn’t affect the familiarity that resonates within me when I hear it, when I am quiet enough to hear it. When I give this inside voice permission to play for thirty uninterrupted minutes before I begin my highly chaotic day, I feel drunk on the silence of my busy head.

I decided to pull that old, virgin notebook from the shelf for this new venture. Still, I tormented myself with violent eye rolls when I read the inspirational message that tattoos the cover. And because I’ve become extremely aware of the satisfaction of listening to my higher self, I grabbed the scissors directly from my desk organizer. I pulled the blades apart and held them in a fist, scary toddler-on-the-loose style. I scraped and clawed with the scissor blade until the front of the notebook I have to look at 5:00am everyday is something I can live with. I scraped until the word “MAKE” was completely gone. My new favorite notebook now reads “THINGS HAPPEN” with the scar of torn paint revealing the hard cardboard underneath.

It’s perfect.

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