A cup of tea.
This is where it starts. The day, I mean. Or, a blog post. This morning it’s Chai. Tomorrow it could be Russian Caravan. Or Australian Afternoon. Or Chai, again.
Some mornings begin with communion. My Mum sent me some pages of a book about it, and as we’re not able to go to church (weird times, campers. Weird times.) I thought it would be a good idea. I grab some bread and water (or wine) and take communion by myself. It’s been a beautiful part of my day, a special way to be fully aware of Jesus before the busyness of the day saunters in. I don’t have it every day, and don’t want it to become a routine without meaning. But when prompted, I take communion and look to my Jesus.
The other day I blogged about finding writing difficult.
This is true, to some extent. But I realised that just because working on my novel isn’t easy, being creative is still part of my every day. I realised that my mornings may be slow, but are full of creativity. Just because I’m not writing, does not mean I’m not creating.
My friend bought me some paint, so I’ve been painting. Art doesn’t come easily to me, and frustrates me because I’m not very good, but I’ve been enjoying it. It feels like getting out of my own mind. When I write, I feel the words pulled from my bottom of my heart, and my mind is constantly filled with words, wondering if they’re the right ones. But when I paint, I express something that I’m not conscious of. Drawing, or painting, is a foreign act I’m still getting used to.
I play guitar. I still don’t push myself to learn the things I can’t do, but one day we’ll get there. Just not today.
And I cook! Cooking takes it out of me, for sure. I cook nearly every day, and while some of those dishes are mindless, and not overly ‘creative’, some of them feel like creative adventures. When I make something for the first time, perhaps. Or when I go off-recipe and use what I’ve got in the fridge. Cooking has made me happier than I thought it would. Most days I’ll make something and be bursting to tell someone about it. I feel creative, I feel free when I cook.
My mornings may not be what I pictured for myself. In my mind, I sit at my desk for three or four hours, and write. I drink tea, and write. I write until I can’t anymore.
This is not my reality. But my reality is still creative, is still feeding my soul. My reality is no less beautiful despite eating the final product instead of publishing it.
So, what will I do with the rest of this morning?
I’m not sure. But I think it will be good.