assembling credenzas

Yesterday, I assembled a credenza.

It arrived in two boxes, that were so heavy that even with a cart, I could not handle getting them up to my apartment. Everyone in sight of this (I literally could not budge either box an inch) –everyone nearby offered to help me. Out of habit, I said no. I was fine.

They all insisted. Which was surprising and effective. I backed off and accepted.

There was no way I could do this alone.

The two boxes of ridiculously heavy credenza were delivered to my door in the afternoon. Later on, I dragged them in, cut the tape, pulled out the instructions, and my eyes glazed over. The diagrams drained life out of every cell in my body. There was no way I could do this. There were more parts than I expected, especially the small ones.

I wasn't expecting to have to think.

For some reason, or no reason, instead of stopping there, I kept going. Repeatedly ignoring that each frame of instructions was exhausting. I had something on tv in the background. That helped with momentum. Any voice other than my reactions and my expectations was helpful.

It took a while.

I didn't look at the clock.

I repeatedly checked ahead to see how much further there was to go. To see if it was going to get easier. Each time I did, my eyes would glaze over. And for some reason, I kept circling back to the frame I was on. 

It wasn't until I was sliding the doors – not sure if I had them in right, but liking that they rolled – it wasn't until then that I realized that I had assembled a credenza. 

I'm still not really sure how this got done. 

I think that happens a lot. 



stop trying

I think that's what's next: to just stop trying. 

Because it feels like trying is more about wanting it to be different, the experience, your performance, what someone else gives you, does, or expects of you. You want that to change, and then you'll go forward.

Trying isn't doing.

It's not being

here. In it. In the experience that is happening,


of your wants, needs, fears. 

So, how about you stop?

Don't think about it, don't rationalize, don't worry about what you did, or didn't, do so far, do not do anything to this. Just right here - now, stop trying.

Show up.


Exactly here, as is.

I knowThat's saying a lot. I mean all of it.

100% as is: with all of its implications, baggage and uncertainty. Everything you'd like to avoid, fix, or remove from reality or from memory... Really, I mean exactly here: as is. 

stop trying.



now what?

if it's obvious you're not getting it

If it's obvious, you're not getting it.

You're breaking off a piece of it—

  • focusing on what you like,
  • on what you worry about,
  • on what you recognize as familiar,
  • or wish would just stop.

You're trying to get in and out fast. 
Probably trying to skip the getting-in altogether.

You're seeking out solid. ground. objects. answers.

Why is that?

I'm not saying that you're not seeing, assessing, understanding, familiar with what you're seeing.

Just that that's part of it.

Whatever you think you know.

That's part of it.

Could you leave room for that?

​Tomorrow, it'll be five years since I quit smoking.

Tomorrow, it'll be five years since I quit smoking.

It's starting to get easier.

I don't mean not-smoking (though I do somewhat—while it hasn't been a big deal in a while, it's still a habit in me that takes attention to not re-up)—what I mean is everything. Everything is getting easier. Even when it's hard, it's getting easier: it's a different kind of hard. The idea that I can't (can't take it, fix it, or allow it to happen) that huge sighing raw I can't! doesn't last or feel as real or complete. It's not much bigger than I am at this point.

Instead: everything changes.

Quitting smoking was a piece of it. Shrinking, easing, smoothing the hard stuff.
This place.

I guess because it gave me a LOT of practice facing it.