(Spring 2019) I’m seated in the outdoor area of the of the Can Can Restaurant in Carytown. It seemed a quixotic and inviting way to start my sabbatical - 60-something degrees-and-sunny, a French ambience with easy coffee and caprese, the quiche du jour. I order a ½ slice for $5.50, and upon its arrival to my table I register an immediate sense of disappointment. Their definition of “1/2 slice” looked like the morsel of leftover many might leave on their plate after a full meal. Truly, it was paltry, and the fact that the white plate so dwarfed the small slice only added insult to injury.
“Apparently,” I tell myself, “I’m hungry this morning.”
Indeed.
I am hungry to grow, stretch, see, and be - fully. And I am fearful that this sabbatical will prove but morsel of what I want. That’s really not a commentary on the sabbatical length. Goodness, 14 weeks is a gift! It is more a commentary about the size of my hunger.
The scrawny quiche declares that the sabbatical is too small to be my savior, my sufficiency, my full-being nourishment. Yes, it will feed me with protein and a few vitamins on which I am likely deficient, but my hunger is deeper and wider than can be contained in these few weeks. Sustained rhythms of health are what is needed to find, uncover, and offer the Voice that resides deep within me.
I glance back at the paltry piece set against the mostly-empty plate, and a new thought emerges. Perhaps the problem with the small quiche is not just its size, but the means by which it was obtained.
I bought it.
And that’s just it.
You really cannot be well-fed by purchasing your satisfaction. The soul is not filled by money spent on activities and items. The soul is not filled by paying others to stretch you and strengthen you.
It is the meals I prepare myself that most feed.
The books I write more than the books I purchase and read.
The stretching I do more than the physical therapy I purchase.
Yes, the experts help and guide at critical junctures. But they cannot give the one critical gift of accomplishment and satisfaction that comes only by way of on-going self-discipline.
I recently brought up my writing goals with my therapist who reminded me, “Most writers I know have an incredibly hard time finding their words and their direction. It’s brutal!” I deeply appreciated his honesty. It inspired me more than the easy well-wishers. Then, he offered this vital wisdom: “Trust the process.”
Daily, write.
Trust the exercise to remold, reform, and even unfold.
Trust the daily micro-motions to lead to a transformation impossible had it been bought or purchased.