After a visit from family this past weekend, I took a drive and decided to visit an independent bookstore I’ve never been to before. I viewed it as my artist date for this past week. I have never been afraid to go places by myself but being intentional about it felt somehow different.
Setting the intention to go somewhere I’ve never been by myself, even if it was something as familiar to me as a bookstore took a little nudging. But I took my time, sat on a wooden bench and pored over my selections.
Most importantly, I let go and my afternoon was my own. Typically, Saturdays revolve around on catching up on home organization, running errands and spending time with Hubby. When I left the family breakfast to go to the bookstore (and get my brows done), I’d like to think I made inner artist smile.
I honored my time for myself and that is more than enough for me.
It included a lot of walking, work and trying to stave off coughing fits. I even went shopping, trying on a few things that made me feel pretty. I am not one for shopping. Any one of my friends, family or husband can attest to that. I like fashion but I just like to buy what I need and hightail it out of there. It is completely different shopping for books. I enjoy settling in and burying my face in several books before deciding which ones get to take the trip home with me.
This evening it’s just been cooking. I am trying something new, a quinoa and sweet potato chili from Whole Foods along with vegan mac and cheese and green beans. Later, I am going to outline post-challenge goals. My birthday is November 16th and I return from the Summit of Greatness on September 16th. I am thinking my writing and wellness goals will have something to do with those 60 days. Off to eat dinner but excited to share more of my takeaways and the next leg of my journey tomorrow.
I would drive to the bookstore, a place I used to call second church. I never had to kneel in second church. I think my gaze held such reverence for my environment that it did all the kneeling, hand clasping, and shouting Hallelujah for me. I don’t know if there ever was a casual visit. I walked through the doors, let my fingers trace designs on covers, read synopses that made me want to burn my notebook. I warmed my body by sitting in the café, sipping coffee and enveloping myself in a story so epic it asked me to go home and pray for a tenth of the talent it took to write such beauty.
I know I should have no idols before Him but surely words that emanate from His created beings can make me want to worship Him more.
Second church was more than escape. I was allowing myself to transcend beyond paper and print. I was literally surrounded by palpable courage, men and women who not only told a story but revealed a truth, did not sit idly by, who punched through a wall of gutless fear and laziness, who showed it all, bruised and battered and bloodied, daring people to critique and laugh and cry, who knew one day someone would pass their work and not give it a second look or one look at all, who knew their words could transform and inspire, or one day be hauled off as garbage, sit in a corner of a dusty bedroom or be used as kindling in a fire.
And when I felt like I was being pushed over the edge or pushing myself over the edge, this is where I went. Put myself in the center of it all. Trying to find where I fit, where the me-shaped piece went. One place that held so many questions and answers in its grip at the same time.