Write and don’t stop exercise.

I’m giving myself ten minutes to just write and see what comes out.

This is a writing exercise I learned about today through one of the workshops in my Praxis program. This keeps happening—I’ll be struggling all week with something (like writing consistently for this blog) and as soon as I stop and I consume the direction given in my coursework, I get all the answers and insights I’m looking for.

It’s kind of creepy actually. How are they doing this? How do they know?

In all, it’s to my benefit obviously, but it’s still strange.

Timer’s still going. I have to keep writing…

I cleaned the house today and it was wonderful to take my time. I find nourishment in reorganizing a home, cleaning it, caring for it, getting to all the nooks and crannies where dust likes to hide. It’s lovely swapping out the bathroom hand towel for a new one. It’s wonderful smelling the scent of freshly mopped floors.

I love the morning after a day spent cleaning well—waking up and making coffee and sitting down to rest in peace-filled organization.

I realize in going back to my parent’s house that I wasn’t taught to find solace cleanliness. I don’t know where it came from.

One of my earliest memories was taking all the clothes out of my dresser, throwing them on the floor, and refolding everything to be neatly stored back away.

I was probably four—at the oldest. I remember because we were living in Martinez and we moved houses when I was four.

What kind of four-year-old takes an afternoon to refold their clothes?

For whatever reason, there was something innately satisfying about it. At a young age, I cared about the effect that my physical environment had on my well-being. Maybe this was a means of self-soothing—I realized early on that I could feel in control, feel safe, and feel cared for by the order of the objects around me.

It’s only continued into adult life.

I remember now a traumatic experience years ago that led me to redecorate my entire bathroom. It was comforting to me to do this. I’ve wielded this tool for decades.

Someone asked me the other day if I considered myself a sensitive person.

I have such a negative connotation with that word, but to my surprise, I answered yes.

It was one of those answers that you give that you don’t realize you gave until it’s out in the open. You hear yourself say yes or no and you’re processing your answer alongside the asker.

All I know is a new blanket makes me really happy. A clean home helps me rest. If this is my longest-lasting coping mechanisms, it’s a pretty productive one.