A Wandering

Today, I wandered. A few months ago, I set a goal of wandering and writing as part of AFATAC and Youth Worker: Collective's Day of Rejuvenation and Self-Care (curriculum here and paper here). The end of the session culminated in participants taking out their calendars and scheduling when they were going to set aside time for their own mental health. Over the last few months, I have been equally accountable and unaccountable to that goal. I am still finding how to take care of self.

I set the goal of wandering because I know movement makes me write. As of right this moment, I am sitting on the 33 taking in some of my favorite parts of San Francisco. The ground beneath my feet connects directly to my voice. I know this, and yet I don't always do this.

Earlier today, I had coffee with Margaret, and we discussed this very thing. For me, I need to have space around me so I can tune everything else out. In my profession and writing, I listen and connect, but they manifest very differently depending on which one I focus. Professionally, I am better around people with deadlines and accountabilities. For writing, I need to be alone with possibility and limitlessness. And these two forces battle as I try to make writing more of my profession.

I find it difficult to schedule self care. It is something nebulous and evolving; it changes given context and time. There are moments when pouring my self into work is self care; it gives me a sense of purpose and responsibility. Then, there are moments when I need a complete break from everything and everyone; a day spent wrapped in fog. Both are self care, and I have hard time predicting when which one will be needed.

I had no goal or purpose today other than hopping on the bus and getting off somewhere. I brought coffee, a granola bar, a pluot, writing materials, some books, my phone, my iPod, and two video games I'm returning on my adventure. The combination was bound to produce something. Indeed it did. I had two lovely spontaneous conversations with dear friends. I enjoyed a baked BBQ pork bun - a treat I haven't had for too long. I perused a book store - a favorite past time that always inspires. I read and read. I pulled together a playlist of cheesy 80s rock. And I wrote. Goal achieved.

Now, I have arrived home, and I am struggling to find the movement and voice of only moments ago. I can't feel the gentle rocking of the floor below me that calls to me and brings a uniqueness and perspective that isn't matched sitting here on my couch. I am haphazardly typing words hoping to find connections that were once there. I'm still rocking the 80s beats on my iPod, but they don't beckon in the same way. Instead, other clatter beckons. Make dinner. Pet the cat. Clean up her shit from the bathroom floor. Open the windows. Tidy up before the husband gets home. I hear all the other things calling to me. And their voices get louder until I can't hear this one any more. And I know.

More will come when inspiration hits.