My mind and spirit have been energized like the commercial bunny, going, going, going. More accurately perhaps is the fluffy Cottontail variety, that’s aligned with the colored eggs of springtime. This commercial holiday another trumped up sacrilege dipped in chocolate. I retreat to the place of order and rest, the page.  The clarity of thought, succinct and creative, all the while provides a refuge, a sanctuary from the encroachment of life.  Media, social and otherwise, a busy schedule, and the increasing use of email from my clients, crushes in on me, and the resultant fatigue and over stimulation leave little time to write.  I don’t think of myself as particularly entrepreneurial, but in fact I’m running a business, Kim Grant – Wannabe Professional Writer, and trying to find a meaningful day job in an attempt to fund my writing.  It all begins and culminates here, through my writing, dreams played out in words on a page.

The business of writing has begun crowding its way into my reality of late, pushing creativity out to make room for contracts, marketing, sales, etc.  I love the control of all the moving pieces, but I would much prefer to pay someone to handle the business side of the business, and leave the word gymnastics to me.  Making time for the pursuit of words is in direct opposition to my normal writing process, for I don’t go looking for a story, the words find me. The creative process usually unfolds like a clean bath towel fresh from the linen closet.  It’s quite a wonderful thing to witness actually.  Poor writing ensues when I push the process.  My former full time day job as an LPGA Professional had me up at 4:30 every weekday morning and still going until late afternoon on most days during our busy tourist season here. My daily grind leaves little time to write, and what time I do have is characterized by physical and mental exhaustion, rendering me an unreceptive and unwilling author.  Perhaps I’m more like the battery bunny than I even realized, just going through the motions. The writer’s life is understandably about showing up and doing your thing, not some grandiose vision of the great creative spirit descending from above. Really forced work is not acceptable to me either. My most fertile time is early in the morning before the onslaught of responsibility and commitment traps me, locking shut the floodgates, and closing in the rush of creative thought.  Pursuit of words constrains, while quiet reflection opens my spirit and releases a lifetime of life onto the page.

Arriving home from work late on Friday afternoon, I spark up the coffee pot in a caffeinated attempt to jump-start my mind.  The usual routine is to veg out for a while, sip my coffee and say hello to my good friend, Oprah. Then I crash, all good intensions out the proverbial window. There’s this little voice way back in the outer recesses of my brain that says I should turn the boob tube off and pick up my journal, and so I do.  Fatigued and unable to continue writing, I put my pen down and decide to wait for my next opportunity, knowing that I would continue when I had time this weekend. The last month’s worth of Saturdays and Sundays has been particularly fruitful, yielding many pages of good material.

Free from the constraints of the schedule I alluded to, the weekends have been an array of creativity, and disciplined writing all performed at what seemed like warp speed.  Poof…it was just Friday afternoon, with two glorious days of me time awaiting, and now it’s Sunday.  I love Sundays, but for more years than I care to count, during my last career, the inevitable blue of Sunday afternoon melancholy would start to creep in sometime after brunch, but before the second half of the football game on T.V.  The dread of Monday morning, and the work week looming, already robbing me of this moment, ugh. I used to be my own boss, able to set my own schedule and bringing the freedom to keep the Sunday blues away.

My morning routine during the work week doesn’t provide time to write, as my feet hit the floor and I’m in work mode, my mind geared up for the day ahead. The weekends are a different story altogether.  There are other distractions on Sunday morning such as the newspaper, a piping hot stack of pancakes with maple syrup, and a cup of coffee.  My best writing usually occurs before I allow any other reading or activity to move my spirit in another direction. This morning is a great example.  Awakening quite early, I put the coffee pot on, and have my quiet time, and prayer. I really don’t feel like writing now, as the Sunday paper is sitting in the driveway screaming to be read.  As I start towards the door, still in my jammies and slippers, finely coiffed with bed head hair and smudged mascara, I hope upon hope that as dawn is breaking, none of the neighbors will get a glimpse of the me that resides behind closed doors.  The rumpled me that no one sees or knows, a vastly disheveled reality from the put together business woman who strides confidently to the car on a weekday morning.  I look like a frump at home.

I decide to leave the newspaper where it was tossed from the passing delivery car, and sit down with my journal to see if I can finish Friday’s musings.  But a quick check of social media, ever the excuse for this writer, finds a post from my favorite author, her tag line this morning is about finding time.  Synchronicity at its finest, once again.  Although that term is associated with modern psychology, I don’t for one minute believe that coincidence is the culprit.  Events and “chance” opportunities that defy conventional cause, is the definition of coincidence.  Who or what causes these synchronistic happenings? Chance?  I think not.  Beginning this story on Friday afternoon fatigued and just too worn out to finish, and stumbling upon an Internet story from my favorite author about finding time to write, are no coincidence.  The disciplined decision to sit for a few quiet moments this early morning with pen at the ready and the confirmation through this beloved author, let’s me know that I’m on the right track and this writing thing is mysterious indeed.

Chameleon or fraud, I don’t know which, but with so many synchronicities throughout my life, I believe that my encounter with God as a young person began my journey to fulfill my destiny.  I’ve always felt that I was on the outside looking in, but I decided to begin the grand experiment of renewing my mind, and choosing to think and believe that my life counts. That’s the gift of my life and my writing, and through this little story begun in my journal on a Friday afternoon, I have come once again to the place of order and rest, my mind and spirit energized by the odd chance that everything unfolds as it should.  Synchronicity strikes again.