“Love the art in yourself, not yourself in the art” — Konstantin Stanislavski

I’m a creature of habit. I try to write at the same time every morning, I make a point of reading something that stretches the stubborn, immovable part of me every day, and I walk every night for as long as my energy level allows (the pup insists I maintain this habit). There are other habits that make up a day, but these are the cornerstones. And I’ve grown to love this routine, even on days when I don’t feel up to the task.

When the task is interrupted by life, I’ve begun to learn to accept that the living of life is the whole point anyway. Rigidly sticking with routine is restrictive and closed, even as it gets things done. And so I do my best to stick with the routine without getting too spun up when it goes south. Life happens, persistently: Just pick back up where we left off and everything will be fine.

Writing is a path I choose to explore every day. When it becomes self-indulgent or egocentric I’ll know it’s time to stop blogging and shift to journaling or some other form of discovery and reflection. Wrestling down ego and focusing on what the work is telling us is the whole point. To love the process of creating art keeps the self at bay and opens us up to what the universe is telling us.