I did not start my day writing. I usually wake at 6:30 to write my morning pages. Every day, three long-hand pages. Just about every single day for the last 10 years, inspired by Julia Cameron’s creativity course, The Artist’s Way. But I wasn’t feeling it today.
I did not write about the sacred or the profane. I did not write about the underside of leaves. The way they turn white when the wind blows on an early summer day as I ride my bike through Riverside Park.
I did not write about my kids. Or my woes — the way I feel lonely or overworked or unaccomplished. No, I did not write about any of that today.
But I wrote about what I did not write about. So I wrote something. I wrote this. This.
And this is all.