When I pause and look back at 2015, I’m appalled. It was an amazing year. I feel little satisfaction.
I’m not an ungracious person. In fact, gratitude could be my calling card. But maybe gratitude is more of an inside-out practice, than outside-in. Maybe one of my channels is blocked. (Or maybe gratitude and satisfaction are separate states.)
Last month, I watched, as a fellow writer sat down, beside me, in a cafe, wrote for an hour, and then stood up, announcing she had written her quota, and was finished for the day. She even smiled.
I like foreign culture.
I appreciate the way it kaleidoscopes my mind.
I need a satisfaction practice.
I need to feel what she feels.
I’m hoping satisfaction is a muscle and not a character defect. I suspect the latter. Inherited. In my DNA.
Or maybe it’s just that it took me so long to rediscover passion, that I’m cautious. Afraid.
Desire pulls me forward.
Like a bow, it relies on tension.
Is satisfaction slack?