Guilty pleasures

by tamarjacobson

Quote of the day:

Every once in a while I make a list of my obsessions. Some obsessions change and there are always more. Some are thankfully forgotten. Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released. I have my writing groups make lists of their obsessions so that they can see what they unconsciously (and consciously) spend their waking hours thinking about. After you write them down you can put them to good use. You have a list of things to write about.

Natalie Goldberg, 1986. Writing Down the Bones, Page 38.

A list of guilty pleasures: Tamarika, November 2012.

Spirituality in the morning when I light incense and candles. Spirituality on my walk when I see robins playing in the trees. Spirituality when I walk past the Unitarian Church on Lincoln Drive amongst the speeding cars as they rush from work to home and back again. Spirituality when I sit in a large church listening to the choir singing through to the roof tops, an organ blasting its tune alongside them. Spirituality with the animals who live side by side with me in my home, noticing their habits, the way they communicate with me and each other, their chirping, growling, moaning sounds as they prance and run, settle into a seat or even dash up and down the stairs. Spirituality in community when I feel the warmth of belonging with others. Belonging is a guilty pleasure – it eludes me time and again. Just when I sense that I am together with people then again I feel apart and so alone. Spirituality in community. Being noticed. Singing at the piano as I accompany my song. Singing with my son as he plays to back me up in more ways than just melodies. Weeping with joy, or longing seem to be one and the same. Writing a list of guilty pleasures and not knowing where it will take me. Lifting my head from the page and noticing the sun thinly stretching across a chilled morning sky. Christmas cacti falling down with fuchsia and pinkish white blossoms, like a waterfall of color and indulgence. Meditating alone in my room remembering chanting mantras softly to Ada as she struggled to push her aching body into a corner of the wall in the hospital room. Chanting washing over me and the little animal settling into a sphinx like pose, allowing us to help her sleep for an eternity.