Small Things

We all need a quiet place in our minds. The sentence seems to fit with what I lack this morning. Minutes pass. My desk doesn’t feel welcome. I’ve spent the last several hours here, trying to finish editing a business article that has frustrated me more than I’d anticipated. I don’t have a business mind. How I’ve ended up rewriting these paragraphs – that’s what this work feels like, rewriting, not editing – is a story that I might imagine myself telling on the couch where I lie down several times a week in a fourth floor office in downtown, near Pike Place Market. I remind myself that I’m not walking downtown to Martin’s office today. I’ll have to walk somewhere else for my daily exercise. Perhaps a good book on psychoanalysis or on Jung’s analytical psychology would find me at either one of two bookstores that come to mind. The business article isn’t done with me yet. I need a break. My body seems to push me out of my office at home and outside, on to the sidewalk, where I stop and wonder where I’m headed. I’m in search of that quiet mental place. This sentence feels significant. Before any thoughts can block unconscious intentions from influencing my conscious behavior, I walk back inside, ride the elevator up to our floor, and minutes later I’m on the sidewalk again, with my laptop, and my quite mental place has arrived, or, in subjective reality, reappeared. In fact, images of Martin’s consulting room and his couch have appeared several times this morning. I wasn’t ready to focus on them. Words escape me: I’m still not ready. I walk to a nearby coffee shop, where I’ve come often after sessions to write about what I remembered had happened. An hour or two later I’m back on the sidewalk, with the editing done. The sentences I’ve written so far have helped me to imagine today, focusing on details. Maybe I occasionally edit business articles because it becomes a good practice in paying attention to small things. I’m at home again, my laptop is where it belongs on my desk, and I imagine that I’m writing this sentence on the couch, waiting for words to come to me. This feels like a strange way to remember my morning, which somehow doesn’t feel real. I need some days away from the couch. Yet I miss it. It’s where I speak about small things.

 

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