Best-Laid Plans

Hi, all!

I'm sending apologies for my lack of presence these past few weeks.

I spent most of October traveling in England. I had the best of intentions to maintain my writing practice and compose my weekly newletter, to use that as my one constant, my one controllable, in a new environment.

I don't know what it is with me and travel, though. My best-laid plans and good intentions never seem to play out the way I imagine.

As poet Robert Burns wrote in "To a Mouse" in 1785,

"The best-laid schemes of mice and men go oft awry."

Before I left home, I expected the trip would be a great writing getaway. I envisioned moments of genius that would come about during my travels. I packed and dragged along all the right stuff . . . my pens and pencils and sharpeners, my multiple journals, my laptop and charger, my books.

Admittedly, I should have known to leave this extra stuff behind, to embark on the journey with no specific expectance. Many shorter stateside trips have shown that the likelihood of my maintaining normal routines away from home is slim to none. Mostly none.

Those routines vanish out the window the minute I'm en route.

Time and again, I've proven that I'm an overthinker. An overplanner. And most definitely an overpacker.

I carry a lot of extra weight, externally and internally, amongst the expectancies. This trip was no different in that regard.

Although no genius of my own revealed itself while I was away, I did get to lay eyes on the genius of another . . . a first edition of Jane Austen's brilliant Pride and Prejudice, along with the small table she used while writing at her home in Chawton.

Seeing those provided the inspiration I needed to reclaim my writing space upon returning home. And to seek the calm I find there.

This morning, before heading to my office, I sat for my daily meditation. Actually, my meditating isn't daily. Who am I kidding? I'm not consistent with it at all. Because I'm lousy at quieting my mental chatter. I know, I'm not "supposed" to judge my efforts but instead merely acknowledge that I showed up. But I'll be honest—I judge.

Today's mindfulness narrator said, "Breathe in . . . then let that breath go." At a moment when I should have allowed my thoughts to pass by without focused attention, her comment got me thinking: How can I possibly expect I could be calm and fully present during adventurous moments when I'm incapable of letting go of a simple breath and a basic thought!?

Nonetheless, here I am, showing up, putting in the effort. Putting pen to paper and fingers to keyboard again. Allowing myself the space and the grace to observe the connections between myself and the world around.

Those connections, and the noticing, are what I miss most when my best-laid schemes go awry. They help calm the chaos.

I need more intimate connections in my life.

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