The titanic effort that we sometimes suspect is required for what we want–whether to calm our restless inner chatter, to attain peace, happiness, or motivation–is what prevents us from attaining it. Over the last couple of days, I have not been able to shake this image of a mother putting her infant to bed. An idea clings to the image: that the way she so carefully slides her arm out from beneath the infant’s back so as not to reawaken it embodies the way we might put forth effort and comport ourselves, the way we might adjust ourselves when we begin to lose hope, lose our sense of well-being, our sense of inner-outer balance, or our motivation. With a sense of trust. Without desperation. There is a thread of deep care running through the world, straight through us, but it is quiet and vanishes if grabbed at. Choosing to make my efforts simpler, like these stippled dots, little by little, is learning to trust the quieter instincts.
A student showed me this drawing looks like a heart surrounded by daggers. Jen says it has a crane thing going on.