Showing Up

I get up, I boot up, I show up. Because the horses’ survival depends on it. And so does mine.

I sing, not because I’m any good, but because it’s my practice of allowing myself to be moved.

I attend a new church, not to revisit rules of religious dogma, but to stand in a beautifully lit room with iron framed windows, a wooden arc ceiling, in the presence of people committed to the idea that there is something out there greater than ourselves.

I added Dear Prudence to my playlist, not as some ode to the past, but because I’ve been singing the Beatles since three years old and their music is in my cells.

I bought a piece of art I loved and put it on my desk, not to accumulate more stuff, but to commit to surrounding myself with things I find beautiful.

I signed up for a book writing class, not for the purpose of the finished book, but to show up as a person who is committed to writing a book.

I volunteer to help my friend set up for her event, not because I’m there to hear the main speaker, but because I need to be useful and lift heavy things.

I call my mom, not because I need all the answers, but because a girl never stops needing her mom.

I listen to a saved Happy Birthday voicemail from my late grandma, not because of grief, but to be reminded that I am still the sum of all the people who brought me into this life.

I seek advice from many different sources, not because I’m unsure, but because sometimes I need to hear the same message repeated many different ways.

I send my neighbor flowers, not to receive a Thank You in return, but because tough life seasons should be recognized, and they deserve to look at something alive and beautiful in their home.

I go to the store, pick out a card, write a message, place the stamp, and put it in the mailbox. Not because I’m trying to look special, but because real letters are rare, and I know small efforts can sum big impact.

I order a meal for my friend in surgery, not to get acknowledgement, but to do what I can to provide a small amount of comfort and nourishment when I’m faced with something I cannot control.

I ordered an illustrated novel not because I needed to consume all its content, but because I want to absorb someone else’s creative interpretation of their narrative. Also, it can be nice to look forward to getting a package in the mail.

I bought a dictionary of made up words, not to memorize them, but to explore someone’s creative ways of overcoming the limitations of our language.

I practice showing up somewhere not in a hurry to leave, not in avoidance of doing something else, but because it shifts the energy of my presence and the entire experience.

I tell a joke in the meeting, not to prove I’m funny, but to practice courage and a recommitment to laughter.

I break a big stick, not because I have to, but because sometimes the transference of energy needs to be literal.

I watch Grey’s Anatomy reruns in the middle of the day, not to zone out, but because sometimes un-productivity needs to be practiced.

I arrange new rock patterns in the garden, not to show a talent for rock arrangements, but because it’s a rare time I let myself create without judgment.

I use my non dominate hand to sketch tiny images of my favorite things: the delicate curve of my horses’ eartips, the profile view of his eyelashes, the dimple in her nose, not to prove I can do something difficult, but to force my brain into intense focus so that I can interrupt the spinning thoughts in my head.

I reread a list of notes, quotes from books, conversations, and ideas I’ve accumulated over the last three and a half years, not to show all that I’ve learned, but as a reminder of what it looks like to pay deep attention.

I look for ways to gather experiences rather than just knowledge, not for the sake of staying busy, but because experience requires living.

I get up, I boot up, I show up. Because the horse’s survival depends on it. And so does mine.