Distraction, or Devotion?

A mini-retreat devoted to work, and I didn't do a thing.

Months ago, I set aside this long weekend in Maine to create a keystone program that’s been brewing for nearly a year. No clients, no biz stuff other than this. Full-on creative lab time. Precious. I couldn’t wait.

But it’s Monday, and I haven’t even looked at the pages of notes I’ve amassed about this offering, let alone birthed it. Instead, I started an essay that I didn’t finish. I had a long talk about death with a woman in a cafe who lost her husband last month. I read a random, excellent article about Whitman in bed before getting up. I filled the wood box and stared at the blazing fire for what felt like hours.

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I journaled for pages about the voice inside that tells me I’m doing it wrong, a voice that’s been more alive this week than ever, and how I’m feeling both the stridency of this voice and its origin in someone other than me, in a great-great-great grandmother perhaps.

Still, not a single bit of work on this major offering.

I wrote about the long slow-motion shuffle with grief that’s shaped my year.

I wrote about my dad. I texted back and forth with my daughter about Jesus, Gnosticism, and apostolic validation.

I took a long walk in the pouring rain.

When I heard, then saw the first loon of the year, I burst into tears. Since he died, I’ve felt my dad visit me with the loon. I sobbed and sobbed, whole-body sobs. I thought of his smell, his long fingers, how he turned to me from his bed and said “I’m going to miss you” before he stopped talking, a few days before he died.

I talked to my sister for two hours while walking home.

I rebuilt my fire. Hung my wet clothes up to dry. Sat by the wood stove in my underwear.

I set a jug of nettle tea to steep. Watched a young eagle chase an osprey that was holding fast to a fish in its talons.

As night falls, I accept that I’ve done none of the work that I came here to do.

Or so it seems.

What do you think?

Love you.

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