I really can’t think of anything to write tonight. It was an odd sort of day. I woke up late after having some really crazy dreams. It took me awhile to wake up. It’s been gray, abysmal and snowing here for the last few days. I’ve really just slogged through the gray day, in which it took me awhile to wake up. I’ve done a lot of reading today, but this is the first writing. At least I’m writing now.
The feeling that the winter is going on too long, and I just don’t want to get out of bed and do anything veil is falling around me. Acedia is setting in. Sloth is getting comfortable. But I am keeping up with some of my routines and rituals: prayer, centering prayer, making the bed, cooking, and doing a load of laundry. Although I need to think about eating regularly more. Daily life is full of routines and ritual that make daily living sacred. Acedia wants says, “It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it. You’ll have to do it all tomorrow? Why bother?” But we have to bother because we are important. Our bodies are important. Our homes are important. Our souls are important. And these facets of life must be attended to. They must be given attention and kept every day.
This is why I need to write. Writing is important to me. It always has been. That is why I must break out of this acedic funk that says “Why bother? Who’s going to read it?” I bother because it is a part of who I am. It is important because it’s one of the ways I feed myself, take care of myself, cherish myself. It doesn’t matter if it’s not read. That’s not what makes the ritual of writing important. It’s important for the simple reason I like doing it.