Use Your Writing Practice to Feel More Alive

Image courtesy of franky242. What if you used your writing practice to feel more alive?  To wake up to the world?  What if instead of using your writing as a way to escape the world, you used it as a way to embrace it?  To make your life feel more vivid, juicy and beautiful?

Because you can.  

 Every day we have moments of quiet joy. But usually we ignore them.  We tell ourselves we are too busy to look at the stars, that we need to do the dishes.  We tell ourselves we are too busy to savour an orange, that we need to work through lunch. 

 And this is our great loss.  Both as people and as writers.

 Think of it this way: how many really great, really big moments do we get in one lifetime?  How many times do we fall in love?  Have a child?  Buy a home?  Win a Nobel Prize? 

 I know.  And yet in many ways we are living for only those rare moments.

 Yet every day we are blessed with small, perfect moments we throw away like spare change we’re convinced will never add up to anything.

 But they do add up.  They add up to an amazing life filled with wonder and attention and gratitude.  All we have to do is notice them.

 Start catching them with your writing.  The next time you see something beautiful, or feel a quiet ping of joy for no reason I urge you to dive in, wake up and turn on all your senses.  Grab your pen, slow down, become aware, and try to write what you: see, hear, smell, taste and feel.

You don’t need to include all of these, but use your senses to touch your ecstasy with ink.
Go ahead and grab that amazing sunrise with your pen.  Jot down the thrill of coffee.  Outline the first smell of spring with your words.

Do it every day and your wonderful life will suddenly fill a notebook.  What you formally thought of as dull, routine days will reveal pockets of magic.  And the best part?  The more of these moments you notice, the more of them you will experience. 

Let your writing teach you how to come alive.  It may be the best gift you ever give yourself.