Self-sabotage

Arrival.

Arrival. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Arrival. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

Scatter, scatter.

I ping pong my thoughts from rapid place to rapid place.

Solving small parts of many different problems in quick succession.

Never arriving, never landing, never seeing something through to the.

End.

I crave that long slow time.

I crave that place I get to where I am breathing into this thing I am doing.

I crave arrival.

Where does that live?

It lives in how I approach the thing I am doing.

It lives with me.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,348

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Older.

Older. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Older. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

I’m noticing myself getting older.

I keep seeing a metaphor of an old chipped tea pot.

Well loved, functional, stained full of memories, comforting.

There is no getting around time.

I’m not sure if I ever thought there was.

As I get older it becomes clearer that enjoying the spoils of lived life…well what other choice do I have?

To fight is futile. Isn’t it?

The risk of all this “acceptance” is that I subconsciously begin to accept other people’s ideas about what getting older means.

The world has a lot of ideas about all of this that hold no interest for me. But it is easy to start thinking in those frames when they are communicated so clearly and with such strength.

(I know I’m not ‘old’, I know I’m ‘in the middle’, I’m saying older…we all get older every day)

The remedy to all of this is being in this moment.

I am this being, right here, right now.

I can do and say and think the things I can do and say and think right now.

That’s it.

That’s all of it.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,346

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Beautiful but damaged.

Beautiful but damaged. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Beautiful but damaged. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

I had a bad dream last night.

A house that was haunted, but beautiful, but damaged.

We wanted to live in it.

Reimagine it.

Reinvent.

Restore it.

I felt frightened that the house was too damaged to regenerate.

But moved into it anyway.

When I woke up, I could feel the house was me.

That the haunted, damaged past was part of the beauty.

I could see that ghosts of events that happened through me are not me.

A kind piano to play,

in the corner,

sings the darkness away.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,345

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Escape.

Escape. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Escape. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

Escape.

From my cliched writing.

Words that have been dribbled so many times.

By me.

By everyone.

Escape.

Myself and my view of things.

The impossible escape.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,344

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Why do everything else?

Why do everything else? Drawing Luke Hockley.

Why do everything else? Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

I spent the day sewing.

Surprisingly difficult to get myself to this place.

Why?

Why do I do everything else before I do the thing that I really want to do.

Excuse making!

Several times today I found myself talking myself out of doing some other ‘important’ task so that I could get back to sewing.

I’m finding my ability to focus on one thing a little challenged at the moment. The real peace comes when I’m just in the thing I’m doing.

That takes practice.

So, I’ll practice.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,342

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Snuggle, cuddle, cold, grey, drab of a day.

Snuggle, cuddle, cold, grey, drab of a day. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Snuggle, cuddle, cold, grey, drab of a day. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

It’s a snuggle, cuddle, cold, grey, drab of a day.

Couch and books and movies and sewing and snoozing.

It’s the kind of a day where it is easy for me to get an attitude problem.

To think I don’t enjoy my life.

Which is pretty funny.

Because I love my life.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,337

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The dread worm.

The dread worm. Drawing Luke Hockley.

The dread worm. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

I am holding in my left hand, which is thrust deeply into my left pocket, a sense of something. Weighty and foreboding.

I find that I can, occasionally, open my palm and take my hand out of my pocket and do what needs to be done. But this sense of heaviness remains stagnant in my pocket, nonetheless.

Randomly, more often, I take my hand out of my pocket and look at it. I sense the gross, dull life form squirming inside my clutched fingers. But I don’t seem to be able to will myself to unfurl my fingers and look at it directly.

Not yet.

Generally, it appears about 24 hours before I am able to look at it.

And so, for a day or so, I live with it.

For about a day, or a bit longer, or a bit shorter depending on the circumstances.

Uncomfortable and awkward and uncertain and icky.

When the time has passed, I take my hand from my pocket and stare for a moment at my fingers and then, like a dive into cold water, open them and place the thing on the table in front of me.

A grey, fleshy, smooth skinned worm squirms upon the table.

I can still feel the dread that it emanates seep into my now empty palm, into my pocket, through my bowels and up into my chest and back of throat.

It’s the dread worm.

And I don’t like it.

It wriggles benignly on the table and I look at. Eventually I do what I know needs to be done and I reach out and touch it.

In what is always a surprise, which means it should never be one, I’m taken aback by its response.

This time the surface where I touched it changes from its morbid grey into a late day sunlight orange.

As I continue to touch and get to know it a little better it starts to morph and change shape. It becomes playful. Joyful.

This transformation is rapid.

And accelerates, almost without me noticing.

Soon it has transfigured itself into an entirely different animal.

A new one every time.

In this process there are awkward moments, painful ones even, but also funny and light hearted and inspiring ones.

And soon enough it has run off and become a thing in the world that has little to do with me anymore.

Mostly it’s a good experience, mostly.

And then I wonder, as I watch it run away, I wonder…why don’t I remember this feeling of lightness and relief when the worm first appears clutched inside my hand thrust into my pocket?

How come I can only feel the dread at that moment?

What I would like is to be able to feel the dread worm appear and know, inside my bones, that this too will turn out ok, even if some bits of the experience are less than ideal, in the end I’ll probably have a reasonably good time.

That.

Next time.

I’ll work on that.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,332

Show your support for Dear Self by becoming a monthly supporter of my work or by buying some stamp money. Your support means I can keep doing the things I do to make the world a better place.

That’s the deal.

That’s the deal. Drawing Luke Hockley.

That’s the deal. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

Today it is hard for me to accept that I have set the bar so low for writing this daily letter.

I feel like it has been quite a few days of average writing. I’ve been on holidays and it can be hard to keep the rhythm up during these times.

I know that my agreement with myself is just to keep the metronome swinging…so that when my mojo comes back around the habit of writing is here ready to pick up the momentum and run.

But gosh it is hard for my ego to accept that I will write and publish things that may not be as interesting/entertaining/insightful as I might like!

Oh well.

That’s the deal.

And I really do enjoy the pay off.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,329

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Impatient

Impatient. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Impatient. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

I can be so impatient with things.

Not always, not in every situation, but when my impatience strikes it is really quite distinct.

Not one of my more endearing character traits.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,328

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I pretend.

I pretend. Drawing Luke Hockley.

I pretend. Drawing Luke Hockley.

Dear Self,

I pretend that I have got myself to a point where I don’t care what other people think about me.

I do a reasonably good job of convincing myself of this.

Perhaps, at times, it is even true.

But I do care.

More often than I like to admit.

I really do care.

Damn it.

Love

Luke

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Day 1,326

Show your support for Dear Self by becoming a monthly supporter of my work or by buying some stamp money. Your support means I can keep doing the things I do to make the world a better place.