Rediscovering Joy in Work

In hindsight I often marvel at how little I know about where I am going or how to get there and yet, somehow, am guided in what I need to do.

I was having trouble deciding on the nature of the “retreat” time I’d set aside- two weeks starting at the end of July. I’d booked a small cottage in the woods northeast of Toronto- a lovely spot on a river too small for motorized watercraft, without a phone or an internet connection. Very private and very quiet. But was I going for a holiday, for rest and relaxation, or to work on my writing, or primarily to do ceremony that required solitude? I couldn’t decide. I felt like I needed all three.

As I packed up some novels (to serve the holiday option) the Grandmothers (who often appear in my dreams and less frequently insert guidance when I meditate or as I walk through my day) repeatedly mentioned six other, somewhat heavy-duty books on brain science and psychology. I resisted. I’d read three of these books. One was a wonderful but complex Jungian take on the effects of early trauma on psyche. Rereading it was about as far away from rest and relaxation as I could imagine. I thought I’d compromise- take four novels and a couple of those “suggested,” but when one of the latter literally “fell” off the shelf- twice- I gave up and stuck them all in a bag, muttering to myself, “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m taking them all.”

What followed was two weeks of study and writing for twelve to fifteen hours a day. I was. . . compelled. . . fascinated. . . . moved to read, take detailed notes and then write my own reflections and stories as they came. Although I had my laptop with me, I was surprisingly drawn to write mostly by hand, filling five journals and, for the first time in my life, having to soak my hand in warm water at night to ease muscle spasms from non-stop scribbling.

I also swam in the river, did my daily practise sitting on the earth beneath the trees, recorded my dreams, (which were clearly the bridge between what I was reading and what I was writing as part of the new book on choice) and prepared and ate great meals. But mostly, I was learning and writing, reading and contemplating from five in the morning until nine at night.

And I felt great! What I remembered was how much I love to work, how much I enjoy learning and letting the fire of creativity and ideas and stories take me where they want me to go. For the last five years of my marriage it was all I could do to take care of cleaning, cooking, laundry, gardening etc. in between collapsing in bed ill. This- this feeling of being on fire with the desire to learn and write, to dream and work- had not been with me for years.

Each night as I lay in bed, listening to the owls calling to each other in the forest around me, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this rediscovery of the joy of doing work I love. I came home happy and eager to continue, ready to read and write and learn more, with enthusiasm. (Enthusiasm- en-theos- filled with/possessed by the divine/Spirit.) Sometimes, if we can let go of "deciding" what something should or could or ought to be, the impulse that comes from deep within will guide us to the home we are longing to revisit.

In the end, all my dithering to figure out what I my intention was for the retreat time, gave way to that which called to me. Was it a holiday (holy-day), time to work on the book, or a ceremonial time of solitude? Yes. 

Oriah (c) 2012