as above, so below
the artist's way // weeks 5, 6 + 7 (the dark, the light, and a playlist)
A week past the half way mark and I’m already growing less and less able to track my life in weeks. The novelty of living by a book is beginning to wane, and much of the practice is integrating, becoming normal, and therefore more difficult to take direct stock of. The beautiful thing about this is, I think it’s okay. The formula I delivered in my first two Artist’s Way check-ins feels less appealing, less relevant, and so instead of being hard on myself for not keeping closer notes, or being more diligent about it all, I have instead decided to just… switch up the form to match my experience. Could this be a bit of self worth and acceptance creeping in? Sorry, I’ll be serious. It is. It’s extra self worth and acceptance settling in, and I’m pretty proud of it, actually.
Even on a day like today. I woke up sad. My brain whisper-shouting at me that I’m back pedaling. I fell asleep to Love Island All-Stars last night and woke up to 30 minutes hunched over my phone in the corner of my kitchen instead of just getting my notebook to write first thing like I’m supposed to. Yesterday I did the same thing except for some reason I also brought all the devices back with me, arm’s length from my morning pages. It was awful. I ended the day emotional and wondered if I’d sabotaged myself.
I was sick last week. My nose was sniffly and my head was a complete fog and my body had had it. In that exhaustion my interest in my morning pages practice faltered but never failed. I felt the sick days coming and I did something I wouldn’t normally do. I made sure I had what I needed. I cooked soup with chicken and lemon and orzo. Stocked up on orange juice. Even bought some little lavender bath bombs. I told my clients I needed time to rest and no one minded. I drank tea and soaked in the tub and tried to sleep long. I was dancing again by Saturday.
The week prior my doctor told me before an acupuncture session how good my bloodwork was. There are years of autoimmune antibody counting and naturopathic obsessing in my past. Not much of it lives in my body anymore, but news like that during a time of relearning how to care for the rest of my being struck a really lovely chord. Later that evening I sat looking out my sweet apartment window and told myself out loud a few times; you’re taking good care of yourself as appreciation tears streamed down my face.
I feel like I’m walking an ever narrowing sidewalk. Back on the uneven cobblestone ledges that line the tiny streets in Florence. Room for just a single person when a car putters by. Alone on the curb, I keep my balance so as not to trip off the side into a deep dark spiral about still being here alone.
My equilibrium has been great lately.
But one kind-faced free drink or flash memory of using a wide-smiled kiss to shut you up and I’m wobbly again. Hand on the wall, fingers crossed the world doesn’t tip. But it does every morning like a carnival ride. Evil cliches and conspiracies-come-true, spewing. I escape into warm water and blue light so my brain might quiet down enough to fall asleep even though I’ve already dosed it with magnesium and Ashwagandha. I close my eyes and hope it feels worth making something in the morning. Or at least worth taking care. Anything but giving in to the pull of screenglow and the oozing black webs rising from the sludge, dripping down our wrists with each ticktickticktick scroll. The interconnectedness is offensive and misplaced.
But as above, so below and all that. Evil mirrors peace. It has nothing else to learn from.
For every software update that throws strange suspicion in my gut, there’s a white haired man in the park wearing a camel colored corduroy newsboy cap. There are flowers pushing through dirt and blooming in the cold February rain. There’s a small girl dressed in pastels sitting on the back of the couch in her picture window, paper hearts taped all along the frame. There is sun winking at me through the trees matched so perfectly to the song in my headphones that I wonder why I would ever need to write again, after living a moment so small and beautiful.
Nothing feels safe and all I can see is our tenderness.
Seven weeks down the sidewalk and it’s as tight as it’s ever been. One foot in front of the other, my eyes blur tired watching my steps without another hand to check me every now and then.
I can’t sleep and suddenly my forehead puzzles soft into your sternum. Lips graze skin and follicle. Your hand, clumsy and rhythmic, brushes my long hair away from my face and down my back. Away from my face and down my back. Away from my face and down my back. As if to say I love you. But it doesn’t matter. I love you. But it doesn’t matter. I love you but it doesn’t matter.
Nothing is really real if you can’t tell what is.
This is going to end up nothing and exactly like you imagined it.
P.S. I have another playlist for you! It runs the gamut, touches dark and light and in-between. Most importantly, it builds to a nice five song dance party at the end. So, skip forward to that if you need to.
I’m doing alright, really. Sticking with the pages. Realizing that artist’s dates are something I pretty naturally give myself without thinking. Working on feeling okay with the lower ebb of the past few weeks and looking forward to flow when it arrives.
How are you doing?
love you. miss you.
🩵 Chelsea
❤️❤️❤️
You ARE taking good care of yourself!