Digging through old posts – thought this worthy of a share.
Routine, I find, is both a comfort and a discomfort. Stripped of all routine when I first became ill, I floundered about looking for some order to the resulting chaos. I longed for a routine, like a navigational device, to help me define exactly where I was in all the madness. (Still compass-less I’m afraid.)
At the same time, I fear a numbing sameness – a morose monotony of nonsensical repetition. I remember doing anything to break the boredom – taking a different route home from work, turning my lessons upside down, or rearranging the classroom – anything to invite new energy.
I feel the same about writing. It is seductive to find a comfort zone and stay there – convincing myself that this is perfecting my craft, however; I suspect a trap. Ego, I’ve noted, likes to sabotage. Exploration is the only way to expand creativity and ignite revelation.
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