INTRODUCTION
It is almost seven P.M. on a July evening in Santa Fe, and the sky is still a bright, azure blue. I sit on a bench amid trees and flowers. Birds chirp in the tree nearby. I can’t see them, hidden in the tapestry of leaves, but I hear them as clearly as if they are next to me on the bench. Farther in the distance, a raven caws. Is it communicating with my nearby songbirds, or is its conversation unrelated? Farther off, a dog barks. A light breeze shifts the tall purple flowers by my bench and they rustle against one another as they sway back and forth. A car passes by, its engine quieter than its heavy wheels crunching through the gravel below. Far in the distance, a horn honks on the main throughway. Wings flutter as a bird lights to the sky, gliding away and out of sight. Nearby, the songbirds’ chatter has slowed, but they still sing, a tuneful discussion in the greenery above. Earlier, it sounded as if they were all speaking at once. Now they seem to be taking turns. Are they listening to each other?
And what does it mean, to listen? What does it mean for us in our everyday lives? We listen to our environment, whether it is the chirping of birds or the commotion of the city streets—or perhaps we don’t listen, tuning it out instead. We listen to others—or perhaps we wish we listened better. Others listen to us—or we wish they did. We listen for our instincts, our hunches, our guidance—and perhaps we wish we could hear them more clearly and more often. The listening path asks us to tune into the many cues and clues that surround us every day. It asks us to take a moment to stop and listen—and argues that the moment spent tuning in, especially when we think we “don’t have time,” doesn’t take time, but gives us time … and gives us clarity, connection, and direction as well. Listening is something we all do—and something we can all do more of. Every life can be improved by improving our listening. The listening path is a gentle path, with tools along the way to become better listeners—to our environment, our fellows, and ourselves.
This book will serve as a guide, urging the reader to listen more carefully and to listen in deeper and deeper ways. When we listen, we pay attention. And the reward for attention is always healing. The listening path brings us healing, insight, and clarity. It brings us joy and perspective. Above all, it bring us connection.
THE PATH TO DEEPER LISTENING
Over the next six weeks, you will be guided to expand your own listening, one level at a time. Each form of listening builds upon the next. I have learned that if we consciously work to listen, our listening deepens quickly. Deepening our listening is not time consuming so much as it is a matter of paying attention. This book will guide you to deeper and deeper listening within the life you’ve got, whether your schedule is busy or open, whether you live in the country or in the city.
We all listen, and we all listen in a myriad of ways.
We listen to our environment, where tuning in to the sounds we might habitually tune out brings us surprising delight: the birds in the tree above enchant us; the tick-tick-tick of the kitchen clock brings us steadiness and comfort; the jangle of the dog’s tags on the water bowl reminds us of the determination of life.
We listen to other people, and we learn that we can listen more closely. When we listen—really listen—to what others have to say, their insight often surprises us. When we don’t interrupt, but wait, allowing our companions to extend a thought instead of rush to complete it, we learn that we can’t in fact anticipate what they will share. Instead, we are reminded that we each have so much to offer, and that, given the chance, our companions will offer something more than, and different from what we might expect. We just have to listen.
We listen to our higher self, and in doing this, we are led both to guidance and to clarity. We do not struggle to think something up; rather we listen and take something down. Very little effort is required; what we are after is accuracy of listening. The voice of our higher self is calm, clear, and plainspoken. We accept each insight as it comes to us, trusting the often-simple thoughts that appear as ideas, hunches, or intuition.
Practiced in listening to our higher selves, we are ready to listen yet more deeply, reaching beyond the veil to listen to those close to us who have passed on. We find the unique and individual ways that our connection remains intact, and the ability to explore and expand that connection with ease. Reaching further still, we learn to listen to our heroes, those who we have not met but wish we had. And finally, we learn to listen to silence, where we may find we discover the very highest form of guidance. One step at a time, the listening path is a gracious experience of becoming more in touch with our world, ourselves, our beloveds, and beyond.
Let us listen.
THE BASIC TOOLS
I have taught live workshops in creative unblocking for forty years. I have watched students become unblocked, blossoming creatively, whether that means publishing books, writing plays, opening galleries, or redecorating their homes. I have also seen a distinct and consistent change in my students as they work with the tools: they become happier and more user-friendly. Many relationships heal and improve. Relationships that need to end are allowed to do so. Collaborations are openhearted and productive. As my students become more honest with themselves, they become more honest with others. As they are gentler with themselves, they are gentler with others. As they are more daring, they inspire others to dare.
I have come to believe that these changes happen because, through the use of the tools, students become better listeners—first to themselves, and then to others. The listening path takes this observation and dives deeper into the root of all creation and connection: our ability to listen.
And so, the basic tools remain the same: Morning Pages, Artist Dates, and Walks. Each tool is inherently based in listening—and each develops our listening skills in specific ways. With Morning Pages, we serve as a witness to our own experience, listening to ourselves each morning and thus clearing the way for further listening throughout the day. With Artist Dates, we listen to the youthful part of ourselves who craves adventure and is full of interesting ideas. And with Walks, we listen both to our environment and to what might be called our higher power or higher self—I myself, and my many students, have found that solo walks consistently bring what I like to call ahas.
I have written forty books. When people ask me how I do it, I tell them I listen. They sometimes think I’m being glib. But I’m not being glib; I’m describing my writing process in the most accurate way I know how. Writing is a form of active listening. Listening tells me what to write. At its best, writing is like taking dictation. There is an inner voice—that voice speaks to us when we listen. It is clear, calm, and guided. It is surefooted, putting one word after another, unspooling the thread that is our train of thought.
Focused on conscious listening, we become aware of a listening path: a path grounded in what we hear. When we listen, we are led spiritually. Listening for our emerging truth, we become increasingly true to ourselves. Honesty becomes our currency. We are given a glimpse of our souls.
“To thine own self be true,” the bard advised us. And when we are true to ourselves, we deal more truthfully with others. The listening path leads us to connection. The listening path is communal. We meet and greet our environment, our fellows, and ourselves.
Because it is sourced in honesty, the listening path is a spiritual path. As we listen for our personal truth, we hear a universal truth. We tap into an inner resource, which can be called grace. As we work to listen more and more authentically, we find ourselves ever more honest. A step at a time, we are training ourselves to honesty. In time, it begins to be automatic.
The habit of listening must be formed and practiced, and there is a simple way to begin it. You may start as I started—and still start each day: with the practice of Morning Pages. And what are they?
MORNING PAGES
Morning Pages are a daily practice of three pages, stream of consciousness, written first thing upon awakening. I, and many others, have used them for decades and have found them to be the most powerful tool to practice listening. The pages are about anything and everything. There is no wrong way to do them. They range from the petty to the profound.
“I forgot to buy kitty litter.…” “I didn’t call my sister back.…” “The car has a funny knock in it.…” “I hated that Jeff took credit for my idea.…” “I’m tired and I’m grumpy.…”
Morning Pages are like a little whisk broom that you poke into all the corners of your consciousness. They say, “This is what I like.… This is what I don’t like.… This is what I want more of.… This is what I want less of.…” The pages are intimate. They tell us how we really feel. In the pages there is no room for evasion. We tell ourselves we feel “okay,” and then we tell ourselves what we mean by that. Does “okay” mean “not so good” or does it mean “fine”?
Pages are for your eyes only. They are private and personal, not to be shown to anyone, however close they are to us. Pages are written out longhand, not by computer. Writing by hand yields us a handmade life. Writing by computer is faster, but speed is not what we are after. We are after depth and specificity. We want to record exactly how we feel and why.
Pages puncture denial. We learn what we really think, and it is often a surprise to us.
“I need to leave this job,” we may find ourselves saying. Or “I need more romance in my romance.” Pages nudge us toward action. Something that seemed “good enough” no longer seems that way. We admit we may deserve better, and then we admit our own inertia: our regrettable tendency to settle, which we have now outgrown.
Pages are a form of meditation. We write down our “cloud thoughts” as they cruise through our consciousness. But pages are meditation with a difference: unlike conventional meditation, they move us to action. They do not “meditate away” our concerns. Instead, we write them out, and as we do, we are faced squarely with the question: “What are you going to do about that?”
Pages corner us into action. They do not settle for anything less. They tutor us into taking risks—risks on our own behalf. The first time pages raise the notion of action, we may find ourselves thinking, “I couldn’t do that!” But pages are persistent, and the second time they raise the notion, we may find ourselves thinking, “Maybe I could try that.” As the pages edge us further on, we find ourselves recording, “I believe that I’ll try…” And we do try—and quite often we succeed.
“I knew you could do it,” the pages may crow. Pages are a companion. They witness our lives. We find ourselves “taking to the page” in times of confusion. Pages help us to sort our often conflicting ideas. We write, “I think I need to break off my relationship.” And then we write, “Maybe I need instead to try a risky conversation.” We try the conversation and find ourselves delighted with the result.
Morning Pages are wise. They put us in touch with our own wisdom. We find ourselves tapping an inner resource that gives us answers to our many and varied problems. Our intuition is heightened. We find unexpected solutions to situations that used to baffle us. The spiritually inclined among us begin to speak of God. God, they say, is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves. Whether we call our helper God or simply the pages, we experience breakthroughs. Our lives begin to run more smoothly. We come to count on it.
* * *
“DO YOU STILL do Morning Pages?” I asked a colleague who taught with me twenty years ago.
“I do them whenever I get in trouble,” he replied.
“But if you did them regularly, you wouldn’t get in trouble,” I chided him—realizing that I sounded like a bleeding deacon.
Yet it has been my experience—forty years’ worth—that Morning Pages ward off difficulties. They give us a heads-up when trouble is looming. Pages are fearless: they do not hesitate to broach unpleasant topics. Your lover is growing distant, and pages mention this unsettling fact. Nudged by the pages, you instigate a difficult conversation. The risk pays off. Intimacy is restored.
Pages mentor us. They help us to grow in needed directions. They perform what I call “spiritual chiropractic,” adjusting us in needed directions. Loudmouths learn to keep their counsel. Milquetoasts begin to speak up. Always, we are moved in the direction needed. Pages are uncanny in their insights and adjustments.
Make no mistake: pages are a tough-love friend. If there is an issue we have been avoiding, pages will point this out. I received a letter: “Julia, I was perfectly happy drunk in the Outback. Then I started Morning Pages. Now I’m sober.…”
Drunkenness, overweight, codependency—pages will tackle them all. We are nudged in the right direction, and if a nudge doesn’t work, we are shoved. Pages put an end to procrastination. We act in the direction indicated, if only to get the pages to shut up.
A woman in Canada writes, “I’ve never been one to journal or keep a diary, but pages intrigued me.” Intrigued, she began the practice. Within weeks she began to reap the benefits. Unlike conventional journaling, where we typically set a topic—“I’m going to write everything I feel about Fred or my mother”—pages are free-form. They feel—and are—scattered. We skip from topic to topic to topic—a sentence here, a sentence there. My Canadian correspondent found herself poking into odd corners and gathering insights in many directions.
Pages can be profound or petty. Frequently they are both. A “little something” bothers us, and is revealed upon further writing to be the tip of an iceberg. How we feel about the issue matters. We write “I feel,” and then we write “I really feel.” Layer by layer we become intimate with ourselves. We discover our hidden self, and the realizations are thrilling.
Because self-knowledge is exciting, pages are addictive. The listening path that they inaugurate is never dull. People who start out declaring “My life is dull” soon find those same lives riveting. The examined life becomes a rich resource. “I didn’t know I felt that way” is the sentence that accompanies some new nugget of self-knowledge.
“Julia, I learned more in a few weeks of Morning Pages than I did in my years of therapy,” reports one practitioner. This is because pages gave him a glimpse of what might be called “the undefended self.” Jungians tell us that upon awakening we have about a forty-five-minute window before our ego’s defenses are in place. Catching ourselves off guard, we tell ourselves truth, and truth may differ markedly from our ego’s version of events. As we listen—and record—our actual feelings, we become habituated to the truth. We puncture “I feel okay about that” to reveal that we may not feel okay at all. As we discover our authentic feelings, we discover our authentic selves, and those selves are fascinating.
“Julia, I fell in love with myself!” is a sentiment often exclaimed with wonder. Yes, pages teach us to love ourselves. Because we accept each thought that comes to us, we learn radical self-acceptance. Listening for thought after thought, we come to anticipate with eagerness just what we are up to. Each new thought unfolds another layer of our self. Each layer tutors us further in our lovability.
Because we reject no thoughts, we teach ourselves that all parts are welcome here. This welcoming attitude is the bedrock of the listening path. A word at a time, a thought at a time, we accept our insights and ideas. No thought is turned away as unworthy. “I feel grumpy” holds equal sway with “I feel wonderful.” Dark thoughts and light thoughts are equally valid. We are hospitable to all moods.
The listening path takes practice. We “hear” thoughts and our next thoughts, but the “still small voice” that we hear is subtle. It is tempting at first to discount what we hear as “just our imagination.” But the voice is real, just as our connection to the divine is real. If we ask for reassurance, we hear, “Do not doubt our bond.” And so we continue to listen, and as we do, we come to trust our guidance. Morning Pages become a reliable resource. What at first seemed farfetched, over time becomes dependable.
* * *
WRITING MORNING PAGES is like driving with the high beams on: we “see” ahead of ourselves, farther and more clearly than our normal low-beam vision. Potential obstacles stand out clearly. We learn to avoid trouble. Equally valuable is our pages’ ability to spot opportunity. Our “luck” improves as we pick up the cues our pages are sending.
“I never believed in ESP,” a recent letter protested. “But now I think there’s something real going on. Pages are uncanny.” The “uncanny” knack of Morning Pages shows itself most often as synchronicity. We write about something in our pages, and the something that we write about shows up in our life. Our wishes become tangible. “Ask, believe, receive” becomes a working tool of our consciousness. As we work with pages, we find ourselves being ever more candid. We write out our true wishes, and the universe responds.
“I didn’t believe in synchronicity,” one skeptic wrote. “Now I count on it.”
So do I.
I wrote in my pages that I yearned to make a film. Two days later, at a dinner party, I found myself seated next to a filmmaker. Furthermore, he taught filmmaking. I told him my dream, and he said “I’ve got one slot left. If you want it, it’s yours.” I did want it. My next pages recorded my gratitude.
Although pages can be about anything and everything, gratitude is fertile ground. Counting our blessings on the page makes room for more gratitude. When we say “I have nothing to write about,” we can turn our lens toward the positive, enumerating our blessings from large to small. A sober alcoholic can say “Thank you for sobriety.” A fit person may give thanks for health. All lives contain grounds for gratitude. The listening path numbers myriad causes for a grateful heart. Focusing on the positive breeds optimism. Optimism is a primary fruit of the listening path.
The deliberate shift from negative to positive can be done whenever we find ourselves with “nothing to say.” All lives contain something to be grateful for, even if that something is rudimentary. “I’m grateful I’m alive. I’m grateful to be breathing.…” Fundamentally, each life is a miracle, and by acknowledging this fact, we celebrate life itself.
“Be still, and know that I am God,” the Scriptures advise us. As we practice listening, we come to sense a benevolent something that touches our consciousness with a feeling of belonging. With pages as our witness, we are no longer alone. Rather, we are partnered by an interactive universe. I recently tried to put this fact into words. “The answer to my prayer? A listening God who knows I’m there.” It is not hubris to conjure a “listening God.” The practice of pages is a spiritual practice. As we write, we “right” our world view. The world changes from a hostile one to a benevolent one. As we listen, we are led—led carefully and well.
* * *
THE PRACTICE OF writing Morning Pages quickly develops into a habit. Scientists tell us it takes ninety days to groove a new habit. But Morning Pages become a habit in far less time than that. As a teacher, I have observed two to three weeks as the turning point. It is a short investment of time for a large payoff. The habit of pages yields us a spiritual path. That path—the listening path—both guides and guards us.
My colleague Mark Bryan compares the practice of pages to a NASA launch: we fire off daily pages and the change seems slight—a few degrees from our normal life. Over time, those few degrees are the difference between landing on Venus or Mars. The slight shift in our trajectory looms large.
I recently did a book signing, and at reading’s end, a man approached my desk. “I want to thank you,” he said, “for a quarter century of Morning Pages. In all that time, I missed only one day—the day I got quadruple bypass surgery.”
I sometimes miss pages on early travel days. Arriving at my destination, I do “evening pages,” but they are not the same. Writing at night, I am reflecting on a day I already had and am powerless to change. Morning Pages lay out my day’s trajectory. “Evening pages” record the day’s journey as hit or miss. Belatedly, I see the day’s many “choice points”—places where I could have chosen more productively. Instead, I squandered my day.
Morning Pages are frugal. They make the best, most productive use of the day at hand. “Pages give me time,” a woman told me recently. “They appear to take time, but they give me time instead.” I am familiar with this paradox. I write for forty-five minutes in the morning, but then throughout the day I seize many “spare moments.” I spend my time according to my own priorities. Time becomes my time.
Writing pages, we move through our days more efficiently. We eliminate what I call “mental cigarette breaks”—those long pauses while we ponder what to do next. With pages in place, we move smoothly, activity to activity. “I could do X,” we think, no longer procrastinating. We do “do X”—grabbing time and using it in our own best interest.
I have sometimes said that pages are a radical codependency withdrawal. We spend our time on our own agendas—no longer on the agendas of others. We are often stunned to discover the amount of time and attention we have spent “people-pleasing” others. As we withdraw our energies back into our own core, we are shocked by the power that is suddenly ours to do with as we please. Many of us have spent our lives being batteries for others. We have worked to fulfill their dreams, neglecting our own. Suddenly, with pages in place, our dreams are within our reach. As we take each small step that the pages indicate, our dreams become our reality.
“Julia, for years I wanted to write and didn’t. Then I did pages. Here is my novel. I hope you enjoy it.” With that, I was handed a book.
I’ve often remarked that teaching, for me, is like visiting a garden. I’m handed books, videos, CDs, jewelry. People have used my tools and the seeds of creativity have sprouted.
“I directed a feature film,” an actor told me exultantly. “I owe it to the pages.” I was thrilled for him, recognizing a dream come true.
* * *
WITH MORNING PAGES, we dare to listen to—and articulate—our dreams. We say what before might have been unsayable. The successful actor dreams of being a director. An advertising copywriter yearns to write a novel. What before may have seemed grandiose, with pages becomes suddenly feasible. We are encouraged to dare, and having dared, we are encouraged to dare further. We are becoming “rightsized,” and that right size is larger, not smaller. Where once we were afraid of being “too big for our britches,” we now expand, not contract. In the words of Nelson Mandela, we see that what we have feared was our true size—larger, not smaller.
We begin to see that “the sky is the limit,” and that sky is big, bright, and expansive—not overcast and gloomy. “I wish I could” becomes “I think I can.” We are like the little engine who could from the children’s book about daring to be large. As we change sizes, we may meet with opposition from our intimates, who are comfortable with our smaller size. In time, they will adjust. The good news is that pages are contagious. Seeing the changes wrought in us by pages, those near and dear to us may undertake pages themselves.
An accomplished acting teacher tells his class that the key to successful acting is listening. Pages train us to listen. “What you are after,” the teacher continued, “is to be a conduit.” He draws an arc in the air, tracing the listening path. “The energy moves through us,” he explains.
As practitioners of Morning Pages, we practice the creative art of attention. We are alert to the cues of the next right thought. We “hear” the words that want to pass through us. We experience being a conduit, a hollow reed for energy to pass through.
Dylan Thomas wrote of “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.” He was talking about creative energy, the same energy we experience as we write our Morning Pages. With our inner ear cocked to “receive,” we pick up subtle signals. Taking them down, we record a psychic path. We are led word by word to transcribe what we need to know and do. We learn to move past our censor, saying, “Thank you for sharing,” and continuing to take down what we hear.
This trick of evading the censor is a portable skill. Practicing any art form, we encounter our censor and step past. “Thank you for sharing,” we mentally note, and as we do so, we dismantle our perfectionist. Pages train us to trust our creative impulses. We become accustomed to “laying track,” putting down word after word after word. We learn to trust that each word is perfect—good enough and even better than that. Our perfectionist protests in vain. We hear it as a wee peeping cry where once we heard it as the booming voice of truth. Our perfectionist becomes a nuisance, not a tyrant. With each successful page, we miniaturize its voice. Although we do not eliminate perfectionism entirely, we dramatically reduce its power.
* * *
WHEN I TEACH, I do a perfectionism exercise. “Number from one to ten,” I tell my students. “Now I will give you a cue, and you will fill in the blank. Ready? Here we go. Number one: If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try … Two: If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try … Three: You’ll detect a trend. If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try … Four: If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try … Continue up through ten.”
Having named ten impulses that their perfectionism has thwarted, students find themselves thinking, “Actually, I could try…” For the first time they see their perfectionism as the boogeyman that it is. By listening to and listing their dreams, they move a notch closer to trying them.
The pages dare us to expand. We listen to our heart’s desires and we listen to the voice that says, “Maybe I could try that.” We dismantle our negative conditioning, the villainous hiss that tells us, “No, never, I couldn’t.” The truth is that we could, which converts to “I can.”
We can do a great deal more than our fears would have us believe. Perfectionism is fear in a fancy dress. We are afraid of looking foolish, and so we hang back, telling ourselves we are being sensible. The truth is, there is nothing sensible about hanging back. We deprive ourselves of the joy of creation. We deny our human need to create. Our dreams and desires are intended to be fulfilled. Hanging back, we thwart our true nature. We are intended to be creative, to attend to the whisper that says, “You can, just try.”
* * *
THE LISTENING PATH requires attention. Our dreams are often soft-spoken. As we listen to their whispered voice, our hearing becomes more acute. Our daily pages tutor us in the art of attention. As we listen to each thought as it unspools, we come to trust our own perceptions. Each word marks a point of consciousness. Taken collectively, the words are the jottings of our souls. As we attend to their unfurling, we pay attention to the narrative of our lives. Far from colorless, our stories are multicolored, rich in their patterns. As we heed our dreams, more dreams unfold for us. Examining our lives, we find our lives to be worth examining.
Morning Pages open a door. Whereas before, our lives were terra incognita, they are now known to us. Our feelings go from mysterious to clear. We know what we feel and why we feel that way. There is a place for us in the larger scheme of affairs.
The listening path tells us what we need to know. Events do not sneak up on us. With our heightened intuition, we often sense the shape of things that are to come. Friends will remark on our seemingly uncanny ability to land on our feet. To us, it is no mystery. Rather, it is the fruit of our Morning Pages. We have come to rely upon pages as sort of an early warning system. We pick up subtle cues of dis-ease. Over time, these cues verge upon ESP. We come to rely on them. We pay attention to our “funny feelings.” We take them seriously.
As we travel the listening path, we develop faith that we are safe. Too many times we are warned of trouble pending. We come to trust that there is a benevolent something that intends us good. This something speaks to us through pages. Our inklings prove to be reliable guidance. Our hunches are inspired.
“Do this. Try that,” our pages suggest, and as we act on their suggestions, we discover that their guidance pays off. Urged in novel directions, we find the new territories to be rewarding. Pages urged me to try writing music. “You will be writing radiant songs,” I was told.
“But I’m not musical,” I protested—until I tried to write music and found myself indeed writing radiant songs. Now, when I teach, I have my classes sing some of these songs. They are loved, and I love hearing them sung. It catches the class by surprise when I tell them I wrote the songs. It is a talent they didn’t know I had, and one that only the pages revealed.
We enter our pages thinking we know our talents. We are, we believe, just so talented and nothing more. We are, if you would, a certain height. But then the pages have their way with us, and we discover that we are creatively taller than we had supposed. I thought music was beyond my reach only to discover I was musically gifted. Similarly, a non-writer may discover a knack for writing, or a non-artist may uncover an artistic flair. Our gifts are many, and often unsuspected.
“But, Julia, how could we not know?” I am sometimes asked. In answer, I cite my own case. I was raised as the “non-musical” one in a very musical family. In my family lore, I was a writer, not a musician. When pages suggested I try writing music, I thought they were nuts—until I tried it.
The family mythology is powerful—so powerful that when I told my musician brother that I was working with a composer and had played him some pieces, he said, “This guy is talented.” But when I admitted that the composer was me, my brother said, “The last number was okay.”
I tell this story to demonstrate the strength of familial conditioning. My beloved brother simply could not believe that I was musically talented. I had trouble believing it myself. Now, with three musicals and two collections of children’s songs to my credit, I still stumble over the phrase “I’m a musician,” although the pages are certain of my talent.
* * *
IT IS MY conviction that pages function as what I call “believing mirrors.” They reflect back to us belief in our potential. They are optimistic and positive. They believe in our strength, not our weakness. Every artist needs believing mirrors—not only the pages, but people as well. When I teach, I ask my students to list three believing mirrors—those people who offer encouragement and support. The pages offer both. Believing mirrors are pivotal to creative success. Success, after all, occurs in clusters and is born in generosity. As we name our believing mirrors, we become able to use them more consciously. I have believing mirrors in my friends. Gerard, Laura, Emma, and Sonia. I run my early drafts past them because they are “safe.” Their support and encouragement enable me to undertake further drafts. They are, like Morning Pages, a cheering section.
When I finished my novel Mozart’s Ghost, I submitted it for publication with high hopes. My hopes were soon dashed as editor after editor reported to my agent, “I loved Julia’s novel, but I couldn’t get it past committee.” No matter that these rejections were near misses; they were rejections nonetheless. As their numbers grew, my faith waned, but I had a believing mirror in my friend Sonia Choquette.
“Your novel is good,” Sonia insisted. “I see it getting published.” And so, bolstered by Sonia’s belief, we continued submission after submission. With each disappointment, I said to myself, “Sonia thinks the novel is good. Sonia sees it being published.” My Morning Pages also waxed optimistic. Encouraged, I pushed on. My agent, Susan Raihofer, was gallant and game. She kept on trying until—bravo!—submissions forty-three and forty-four both wanted the novel. We chose submission forty-three, St. Martin’s Press. I am convinced that without the pages and Sonia, I would have given up. My believing mirrors helped me go the distance. I am tickled that I did.
“Your novel is so good,” readers tell me. They echo Sonia’s sentiment. I am grateful to Sonia and to my pages that I kept on. Believing mirrors give us stamina and optimism. They are pivotal to creative success.
“Keep on keeping on” is the mantra of Morning Pages. “Don’t stop five minutes before the miracle.” Make no mistake: the pages do create miracles.
“I do Morning Pages because they work,” pronounces one twenty-year practitioner. “I do pages because then I happen to the day, instead of the day happening to me.”
“You make wishes in your Morning Pages, and a lot of times they come true,” volunteers another believer. “I began pages as a disillusioned classical violist,” antes up Emma Lively. “Pages convinced me to try composing. Now I am a composer.”
“Ditto,” says another practitioner. “I was jealous of playwrights. Now I am one.”
Morning Pages are simple but dramatic. They turn us into who we want to be. What could be better than that?
TRY THIS
Set your alarm forty-five minutes early. Spill from the bed straight onto the page. Write three pages longhand about anything and everything that crosses your mind. At the end of three pages, quit. Welcome to Morning Pages. They are the gateway to the listening path.
THE ARTIST DATE
The Artist Date is the tool of attention. It has two differing emphases: “artist” and “date.” Put simply, an Artist Date is a once-weekly solo expedition to do something that enchants or interests you. It is half artist and half date. You are “wooing” your artist. Planned ahead of time—hence “date”—this weekly adventure is something to look forward to. As with a romantic date, anticipation is half the fun.
When I teach, I find myself facing resistance—not for the work of Morning Pages, but for the play of the Artist Date. Our culture has a strong work ethic, but we have no “play ethic.” And so, when I introduce Morning Pages—“I have a tool for you. It’s a nightmare. You must get up forty-five minutes early and take to the page”—I can see heads nodding. My students “get” that this tool might be very valuable, and so they readily commit to doing it.
But when I introduce Artist Dates—“I want you to do something that intrigues or enchants you for an hour or two weekly. In other words, I want you to play”—arms cross defiantly. What good could “play” possibly do? We understand working on our creativity. We don’t realize that the phrase “the play of ideas” is actually a prescription: play, and you will get ideas.
It is astonishingly difficult to undertake assigned play. “Julia, I can’t think of an Artist Date,” I am sometimes told. Once again, this plea comes from a lack of play. Rather than be playful, these students are overly serious. They believe that they must find the “perfect” Artist Date.
Nonsense, I tell them. Then I ask them to number from one to five, and quickly, off the top of their head, list five possible Artist Dates. When a list of five simple pleasures seems impossible to come up with, I give my students a tip: Pretend you are a youngster. Name five things you as a youngster could enjoy. Grudgingly, the playlists are generated.
1. Go to a children’s bookstore.
2. Go to a pet shop.
3. Go to an art supply store.
4. Go to a movie.
5. Go to the zoo.
After they have listed their initial five, I urge them to come up with five more. This takes a bit of digging, but soon five more are uncovered.
6. Visit a plant store.
7. Visit a botanical garden.
8. Visit a fabric store.
9. Visit a button shop.
10. Attend a play.
The minute Artist Dates are firmly established as fun, ideas for them abound. But for those who are still stymied, brainstorming with a friend turns the trick. Our friend may say, “Visit a museum. Visit a gallery.” Or, as one of my friends suggested, “Visit a hardware store.”
The lists are for giddy delights—nothing serious here. This is not the time to undertake edifying adult pleasures, such as the computer course you’ve been meaning to take. The course is not an Artist Date. It is far too demanding. What we are after here is sheer fun. Nothing too harsh. And remember, it must be undertaken solo. On an Artist Date, you are wooing yourself. The adventure is not to be shared. It is private and personal: a secret gift you share with yourself alone.
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EXECUTED SOLO, THE Artist Date is a special time during which your artist is the focus of your attention. “On Friday, I’m taking my artist to a meal out in Little Italy.”
The Artist Date pushes us into a state of heightened listening. During the date, we become acutely in touch with ourselves and with what we might call our “inner youngster.” It is common to experience resistance to this tool, but the rewards of listening so closely to ourselves are great. Alone with ourselves, doing something just for fun, we hear both our innermost desires—and often inspiration, or what feels like the hand of a higher force.
Making art, we draw from an inner well. We “hook” image after image. On our Artist Date, we are replenishing the well. We are consciously restoring our stock of images. The hour we spend spoiling ourselves pays off; when next we make art—fishing for images, remember—we find our well abundantly stocked. We hook images easily. There are plenty to choose from. We listen for the one that seems best.
On our Artist Date, we pay close attention to our experience. This attention rewards us with delight. Our sortie to Little Italy fuels our senses. Rich aromas and savory tastes grace our palate. Veal with lemon—veal piccata—and freshly baked garlic bread tickle our taste buds. Back at home, writing on a different subject entirely, we find plentiful images as rich as our meal. A successful Artist Date pays off, but not in a linear fashion. We take Date A and we reap the rewards in Z Perhaps it is because the rewards are not linear, people find Artist Dates harder to practice than Morning Pages. Pages are work, and we have a highly developed work ethic. Artist Dates are play, and we do not take “the play of ideas” literally. We are willing to work on our creativity, but play? We don’t see what good play can do.
But play can do plenty. As we lighten up, our ideas flow more freely. No longer straining to think something up, we relax, listen, and take something down. Hunches and intuitions come to us on Artist Dates. Many people report that during their Artist Date they felt the presence of a benevolent something that many identified as God.
“For me, Artist Dates are a spiritual experience,” one practitioner reports. Think of it this way: With Morning Pages, you are “sending.” With Artist Dates you have flipped the dial over to “receive.” It is as though you are constructing a spiritual radio kit. You need both tools for it to work properly.
“I get my breakthrough ideas on Artist Dates,” a woman tells me. I’m not surprised. Creativity experts teach that breakthroughs are the payoff of a two-part process: concentrate and then release. With Morning Pages, we are concentrating, focusing our attention on the problem at hand. With Artist Dates, we practice release, and our minds fill with new ideas. It takes the “letting go” for the process to work. This is why so many people report that their breakthroughs occurred in the shower or as they executed a tricky merge on the freeway. Albert Einstein was a shower person. Steven Spielberg is a driver. The critical point is focus, then release. Too many people strive for breakthroughs by focus without release. Artist Dates are the remedy for this bad habit. The play of an Artist Date inaugurates the play of ideas.
The point of an Artist Date is enjoyment. A hearty dose of mischief characterizes the best dates. Do not be dutiful. Think mystery, not mastery. Think frivolity. Do not plan something you “should” do. Instead, plan something that perhaps you shouldn’t do. Ride a horse-drawn carriage. Enjoy the clip-clop of iron-shod hooves. Artist Dates need not be expensive. Some of the very best are free. It costs nothing to browse the shelves of a children’s bookstore. And the books found there are fascinating. All About Reptiles. All About Big Cats. All About Trains.
Artist Dates are childlike. The amount of information contained in a children’s book is the perfect amount to set our artist humming. More information—the amount, say, in a book for grown-ups—can overwhelm our artist, leaving us feeling daunted. Remember, always, that our artist is youthful. Treat it as you would a child. Coax it rather than flog it forward. It will respond well to playfulness. Artist Dates—assigned play—are an ideal tool for increased productivity.
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“I TOOK AN Artist Date at a pet store where I was allowed to pet the baby rabbits. Afterward, I wrote like a fiend,” reports one happy student. Her favorite bunny was a female Lionhead—a fluffy specimen that was both gentle and playful. Back at home, out her living room window, she spotted several cottontails in quick succession. “It was as if I had my dial set to ‘bunny,’” she laughs.
Pet stores, with their inherent playfulness, are an ideal Artist Date. But one practitioner swears by aquarium shops. “I could stay for hours,” he tells me. “I am mesmerized by the tiny little neon tetras with their glow-in-the-dark stripes. And I have a love for fan-tailed goldfish, with their fins floating like veils. The angelfish look so serene, but are actually aggressive. The swordtails are colorful, but very shy.”
Paying attention to the natures of the differing fish is an act of attention. Attention is the primary characteristic of an Artist Date. We listen for the individual traits of each date, and we record them in our memory bank. When next we sit down to create a piece of art, we have a rich well to draw on. The particulars in our memory translates into specificity in art, and specificity is what engages the viewer.
Fine arts photographer Robert Stivers hangs each of his shows with care. The placement of each piece is important to him and to those who visit the gallery. Stivers’s work ranges from the mysterious to the mystical. The beauty of his images is undeniable, from a wind-tossed sunflower to a solitary palm.
“I think of it like listening,” Stivers says. “Something will catch my eye like a whisper catches my ear. It’s a matter of attention.” Driving across the desert, Stivers snaps photos from his car window. The images he captures are striking.
“I like some of what I get,” he says modestly. His eye is ever alert, and his modesty has an understated dignity. Visiting a gallery on the eve of a show of his, I am treated to a sneak preview. Leafing through a hundred images, he takes particular pride in a series of animals in saturated color. A ram is hot pink, a buffalo is regal purple, a moose is green. The jolt of color makes each animal more memorable. Even Stivers has to admit he “likes some of what he gets.”
A visit to a Stivers show is, for me, a perfect Artist Date. His images are so stunning, they jar the senses, inducing a childlike wonder. A single rose, caught at the point of decay, is a memento mori. A nude draped in cheesecloth is another.
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A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST Date opens the door to creative exploration. What you see or hear opens the heart to what you feel. Emotion is unlocked. The whole person is engaged.
In planning an Artist Date, choose beauty over duty. You are out to feel enchantment. Jotting a quick list of ten things you love leads to a succession of Artist Dates. If you love horses, you could pet a horse. If you savor chocolate cake, you could visit a bakery. A cactus leads to a florist. All your loves lead somewhere, and that somewhere is a rich Artist Date.
Artist Dates provoke a sense of connection. In visiting something you love, you come home to yourself. There is a thrill that is quite visceral. A feeling of well-being steals over the senses. Many report they felt a touch of the divine. There is something sacred in celebrating what we love. A feeling of gratitude for the abundance of the universe is a common experience.
“Julia, I think I felt God,” one student exclaimed to me with wonder.
The sense of a larger and benevolent something—call it God or not—is the frequent fruit of an Artist Date. On the dates, we are kind to ourselves, and that seems to raise for us the possibility of divine benevolence.
Ours is predominantly a Judeo-Christian culture, and many of us have been raised with a punitive God concept. Our childhood God is often judgmental and punishing. We must work to establish a more benevolent God consciousness. Our “new” God may be kind, generous, encouraging, even good-humored. As we list the traits we would like to have in a god, we may realize that those traits might actually be an accurate naming of characteristics that do exist. There is a truthfulness to naming a benign god. We can posit a loving god and then begin to experience one. Artist Dates swing open a doorway to the divine.
As we consciously work to delight ourselves, we become increasingly aware of the delights existing in our world. Let us say we do visit a pet store and pet a bunny. Our wonder at the marvelous creature opens the door to our wonder with the world.
At their best, Artist Dates inspire a sense of awe. As we undertake a visit to something that enchants us, we open ourselves to still further enchantment. One delight leads the way to another. Initially an Artist Date may strain our imagination as we strive to find something wonderful—for fun and perhaps for free. With practice, Artist Dates gain ease. As we become accustomed to wooing our artist, we become more ardent. The dates cease being “work” and instead become filled with a sense of abundance. As the dates cause us to prosper, we increasingly inhabit a prosperous world.
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ARTIST DATES BUILD one upon another. As we pursue a fancy, other fancies suggest themselves. Interests lead the way to passions as we become more and more committed to savoring our experience. If our dates begin as black and white, they soon assume Technicolor as they awaken our senses. Focusing on our senses becomes pivotal. One Artist Date to visit a rose garden awakens our senses of sight and smell. Another, to a restaurant with a good salad bar, wakes our sense of taste. The pet store with the fluffy bunny jump-starts our sense of touch. The concert opens our ears. Planning Artist Dates a sense at a time sets for us a meaningful challenge. As each sense is focused upon, it awakens. Fully awake, we experience ourselves as multisensory beings. All of life becomes more savory.
“Artist Dates woke me up,” one student exclaimed. “Everything became more vivid. I feel more fully alive.”
Feeling more fully alive is a common fruit of Artist Dates. It is as though our lives, like Stivers’s animals, become saturated with color. We become alert. We notice the particulars in our surroundings. In New York, cherry trees surround the reservoir in Central Park. Their blossoms are a pink froth not to be missed. In New Mexico, spring brings full blooms to the apricot trees. Again, not to be missed. Each season—and each place—brings a passing glory, and we are awake to them all.
“Since starting Artist Dates, I pay better attention,” another student explains.
It is as though taking an hour or so weekly to really focus on pleasure makes the other hours of our week more pleasurable. The fun of an Artist Date both precedes and follows the actual date itself. We look forward with anticipatory glee to the date we plan. Afterward, we savor the memory of the date. Our Artist Date has three distinct phases: before, during, and after.
Artist Dates make us more grounded. As we focus on pleasing ourselves, we learn what pleases us. A student complained to me that she found Artist Dates painful. A little exploration revealed that she was taking “serious” Artist Dates, focused on self-improvement. “Lighten up,” I told her, and she did, reporting back happily that her dates were now a source of fun, not edification.
Ideally, Artist Dates are gleeful experiences. They are focused on fun, frivolity, and fancy. In other words, on sheer delight. Play awakens the imagination. We find our thoughts more fertile. We concentrate on fun, and we discover that we gain an increased ability to concentrate, period. It is as though our mind is rewarding us for having given it some relaxation. In return for fun, we receive an increased capacity for work.
Artist Dates make us realize that many of us have lopsided lives: too serious and too focused on work. My mother kept a bit of doggerel prominently posted as a warning:
If your nose is down to the grindstone rough,
And you hold it down there long enough,
Soon you’ll say there’s no such thing
As brooks that babble and birds that sing.
Three things will all the world compose:
Just you, the grindstone, and your darned old nose.
My mother knew to take Artist Dates. In her fifties, she signed up for a course in belly dancing. Her graduation certificate enjoyed a place of honor in our household. With seven children to raise, she knew the value of sheer, unadulterated fun. Our house featured two pianos: one for lessons and one for fooling around. My mother played the piano herself, launching into “The Blue Danube” waltz whenever she was upset. From her example, we children learned that a dose of fun cures the blues. When we were too moody, Mom would load us into the car and take us on an Artist Date to the Hawthorn-Mellody Farm, a local dairy farm that featured a petting zoo. A visit with a baby lamb or goat always restored our good spirits. Baby animals sparked joy, and our grumpy moods vanished.
Artist Dates are an antidote for our woes. An hour, or even two dedicated to fun lifts the mantle of depression. Optimism sneaks into our temperaments. The whole world switches moods from sad to sunny. Taken once weekly, an Artist Date is a powerful prophylactic for despair.
“I found myself hooked after just a few Artist Dates,” confessed a woman who had fought depression for years. Her Artist Dates became a happy habit.
“I resisted Artist Dates,” a man confided. “When I finally took one, I was astonished at the difference it made in my world view. The world went from threatening to friendly.”
Artist Dates alter our perspective. Troubles that loomed large shrink in size. We find ourselves feeling stronger, able to face down our obstacles. Our sense of proportion returns. We become large enough to conquer all that we encounter. We feel strong where before we felt daunted.
Artist Dates are an integral part of the listening path. As we set out to have fun, we are voting confidence in ourselves. We are daring to expand. Listening for the joy that each festive expedition brings us, we become attuned to happiness, and happiness is a primary characteristic of the listening path.
TRY THIS
Once a week, take yourself on a festive solo expedition. Do something that brings you delight. Choose something fun, something that tickles your fancy. Plan your date ahead of time so that you anticipate it with joy. Allow yourself to be playful. Be young at heart.
WALKING
When we walk, we listen. We tune in to the sights and sounds of our environment. We awaken our senses. Walking brings us into the present moment. We notice our surroundings. We become alert. Moving at a gentle pace, we take in all that meets our path: the cardinal flicking from a tree, the mountain aster gracing the roadside, the chamisa bush gone silvery-green, the quick gray lizard darting across our path. Stretching our legs, we stretch our minds. We take delight in the songbirds perched in the piñon tree. If we are lucky, we spot a deer posing immobile in the tall grass.
Each step we take fires off endorphins: nature’s booster rockets. Our body chemistry alters toward the positive. Our mood lifts automatically. What we see and hear cheers us as well. We receive double benefits, physical and psychological; both work on our behalf.
“There! The cat on the windowsill!” We greet the sight gladly.
“There! The puddle to be avoided!” As we walk, we are alert. We spot the dangers of the trail. The pace of walking makes that possible. Sounds come to us crisply: the raven’s caw, the songbird’s trill. We register each sound: the wind in the piñon trees. The softest swoosh catches our attention. We listen to our world as we walk.
“I love to walk,” one woman reports to me. “I try to take ten thousand steps daily. I have a gizmo that registers each step. It is called a Fitbit, and I love it.”
Walking with each step monitored gives us a feeling of accomplishment. Registering each sound, each step, we find the world friendly. It talks to us. The crunch on gravel of an approaching car—we hear it and are warned. The rumble of a large truck says, “Step to the shoulder.” We hear our world as well as see it. In fact, sound often comes to us ahead of sight.
As we practice conscious listening, our hearing becomes more acute. We tune into the sounds in our environment. We become more and more discerning. With each footfall, we hear more clearly. We walk ourselves into clarity.
In the city, we pass a florist’s shop—a kaleidoscope of color. Next, a bakery with savory treats gracing its window. A hardware store displays its wares. A bookstore shows its titles. Walking, we take it all in. Walking, nothing is lost to us. Our mind and emotions capture the passing sights.
The florist’s shop showcases orchids and bromeliads. The bakery features napoleons and croissants. A hammer and saw announce the business of the hardware store. Books propped to display their dust jackets clarion “Read me!” from a bookstore window.
Whether we live in country or in city, walking makes our territory ours. Whether we are spotting a painted horse grazing by the roadside or a mounted policeman directing traffic, we savor the sight. Walking, we take mental Polaroids, catching moment by moment. Back at home, settling in to write or paint, we have our memories of walking to draw upon. Walking has enriched our store of creative supplies.
Endorphins, nature’s booster rockets, are released as we walk. Our feelings of well-being increase. Walking out grumpy, we alter our mood a footfall at a time. A brief twenty-minute walk is long enough to nudge us into optimism. We vanquish our bad moods with every step.
It matters little whether we walk in country or in city. An ambling pace guarantees we will take in enough sights on either route. Walking with a dog, we take in the dog’s sights: “Oh, look! There’s a handsome Rottweiler.” “Look! There’s a darling cocker spaniel.”
My dog, Lily, a Westie, has a fondness for my neighbor’s golden retriever, Otis. She yips with excitement when Otis is out in his play yard. We live up the mountain from Santa Fe, and our neighborhood sports deer. When Lily spots one, she stops stock-still. “That creature is big!” I can almost hear her thinking. It takes a tug or two on her leash to convince her to walk on. One morning she spotted not one, but four deer. She stood riveted as the deer crossed the path ahead of her. “What a good adventure! I can’t wait to tell Otis!” her posture said. And stopping by his play yard, Lily did precisely that.
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SOMETIMES PEOPLE HAVE difficulty setting out to walk. It seems like a waste of time and energy. But it is not a waste. A twenty-minute walk burns forty calories, sometimes more. It revs up our metabolism for several hours. A daily walk peels away pounds. It is enough to tone our muscles and build our stamina. “Walk daily,” advises physical trainer Michele Warsa, herself the trim product of her own advice.
“Walking is the best,” echoes actress and poet Julianna McCarthy. “All the authorities agree,” she continues. “A daily walk takes off the pounds and has the added benefit of creative inspiration.”
Among the authorities McCarthy numbers we find writing teacher Brenda Ueland. Herself a great walker and writer, Ueland proclaimed, “I will tell you what I have learned myself: For me, a long five- or six-mile walk helps, and one must go alone and every day.”
Still another great authority is author Natalie Goldberg, who penned the classic Writing Down the Bones, a great into-the-water book and perennial bestseller. Goldberg vouches for walking as a primary creativity tool. Seventy and fit, she hikes to maintain her spiritual balance. “Walking gives me ideas,” she tells me. “I like to limber up my mind.”
I have been friends with McCarthy for forty years and friends with Goldberg for thirty. They are both believing mirrors for me, reinforcing my identity as a writer, and yes, as a walker. When my spirits flag, I phone both of them and get a booster shot of inspiration.
“It’s good that you’re walking Lily,” McCarthy tells me, infusing me with her own love of walking. I tell her of the deer Lily spotted and she chuckles appreciatively. McCarthy lives up a mountain in California. We share flora and fauna reports from her mountain to mine.
Author John Nichols is yet another writer and walker. He credits his daily trek up a small mountain in Taos, New Mexico, with fueling his creativity. Like Brenda Ueland, he takes a long walk “alone and every day.” The author of The Sterile Cuckoo, The Milagro Beanfield War, and a dozen other books, Nichols is good-humored—yet another benefit of his walks.
“John makes me chuckle,” I recently confessed to Goldberg.
“Me too,” she corroborated, having just shared a podium with him.
Like Nichols, Brenda Ueland waxed optimistic. She stated, “Think of yourself as an incandescent power, illuminated and perhaps forever talked to by God and his messengers.”
She was talking about celebrating her “conscious contact” with a higher power. One of the first and finest fruits of walking is the sense of connection to “God and his messengers.” As we walk, we experience a spiritual dimension. Hunches, insights, and intuitions come to us, ideas not our own. As we groove the habit of walking, we find ourselves cocking an inner ear to higher realms.
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ALTHOUGH WE CAN quickly discover its benefits for ourselves, walking holds a place of honor in many spiritual traditions. Aborigines set out on walkabouts. Native Americans pursue vision quests. Wiccans walk to Glastonbury. Buddhists practice walking meditation. It was Saint Augustine who proclaimed “Solvitur ambulando”—“It is solved by walking.” The “it” may be a personal or professional dilemma. Walking untangles our often tangled lives. A footfall at a time, we are brought to clarity. Søren Kierkegaard walked to unravel affairs of state. We might equally walk to unravel affairs of the heart. “I feel this way about that,” the walks tell us. Many of us intuitively take to walking when we are trying to puzzle something out. With each step, we listen—and “hear”—with more ease. As we walk, our listening deepens. We naturally attune to our environment and to our higher selves.
Walking, we take in the sights and sounds of the world we live in. In the country, we hear songbirds, their melody interrupted by a raven’s caw. Walking slowly, we soon spot the raucous bird perched on a high tree limb. It flaps off as we draw near. We walk on, gifted again with melody.
In the city, a jackhammer drills a staccato beat. Walking toward the sound, we see that a stretch of sidewalk is being repaired. Skirting the men and machines, we come upon a hydrant gushing water. We step into the roadway, the better to avoid the muck. A taxi honks and we step to one side. The impatient driver shouts from a rolled-down window, “Out of the way!” “Okay, okay,” we call back as, stepping up on the curb, we resume our walk, pausing to warn a dog walker of the mess he will face ahead. Walking renders us friendly. The dog walker, with his pack of dogs, thanks us for the heads-up.
“Sure thing,” we respond. The din of the jackhammer drowns out further conversation. We walk on, leaving the hubbub behind us.
Making walking a conscious tool, we learn to listen to ourselves closely. The listening path is led a step at a time. Walking, we walk ourselves home.
I wrote a book titled Walking in This World. Its premise? That walking benefits us spiritually as well as physically. It suggests walking with friends, the better to have a heartfelt conversation. Walking, we are attuned to the rhythm of our thoughts. We hear the words and the emotion behind the words. We become intimate. It is difficult to lie, walking. Each footfall engages our attention. Each footfall engages our breath. We find ourselves saying the unsayable. We listen as we talk. We ask ourselves the question, “Am I being authentic?” Walking as we talk, the answer tends to be yes.
TRY THIS
Outfit yourself with a pair of comfortable shoes. Set out for a brief, twenty-minute walk. Take in your surroundings. Notice what you are mulling on. Back home, take to the page, and note down one sight from your walk.
For example: I passed a florist’s shop with a whole bank of giant sunflowers.
Or: I passed a shar-pei who looked very distinguished.
Now, write down one aha from your walk. We receive insights and ideas when we walk; walking opens us to a higher form of listening, which might be called guidance or intuition.
For example: I realized I can trust that my cousin has a higher power, even though she looks to me for so much advice.
Or: I’d like to write more music. I could write a little bit each morning after Morning Pages.
Take your twenty-minute walk at least two times during the week. Are you waking up to the world around you?
Copyright © 2021 by Julia Cameron
