I noticed a peculiar thing today when thinking back on my writing class last night. I recall Lyon (my teacher) talking about how one must cherish their work, and make it their muse. One to be respected. Romanced. Even revered. That, for example, when soliciting feedback on ones work, it’s not an act of courage to open it up to others and say, “DO YOUR WORST.” One wouldn’t open up their friends, partners, or family members to unbridled criticism in this way.

The trouble with that, for me, however, is that I often find myself turning my nose up at the idea of being “precious” about my work. Worried that the perception of caring about it too much would look like I’m overstating its importance. That I seem to not know that my life isn’t that important… I mean, like it’s important, and all, cause I’m a human, sure. But like… Clearly I’m not Gandhi.

And I don’t want people to perceive ME as self-important.

My question to myself at this moment, though, is, do I look on other life with this degree of judgement? Do I think my dog, my partner, the groundhogs rooting around, are all considering themselves too much for wanting their run at consciousness respected? I don’t. So what if I took me out of it? What if I considered what I’m doing, just… life. Not my life, but life itself.

Reminder to self, I can be in love with this completely mystifying experience that my consciousness is currently blasting through JUST AS I am in love with the way that life is happening all around me. And doing so does not mean that I am obsessing over myself, but appreciating that I am life. Not that I possess a life.