Recently, I read The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp and was affirmed that having a rhythm and schedule are vital to creativity. One reason is because it allows for rituals to happen. Rituals, she would say, is an action that happens according to a set or prescribed way, and that in order to have rituals, chaos has to be managed.
As I read those beginning chapters on how to prepare to create, I was reminded of my present situation: no two days of mine have been the same, and they haven’t been for three (plus) months. In regard to writing, each day I did not write or blog, I felt one more brick added to my bag, since it was a goal I set for myself on January 9th of this past year. I was doing well until a few months ago.
After reading how important rhythms and rituals are to the creative habit, I realised there was no way to write every day during this past season. Life happened in a variety of ways, and I simply had to go along with it. 
Or rather, I chose to go along with it in order to honor those things that came up, for example, relationships when death arises, marriage when the lack of time attempts to erode it, or myself when noise creeps so far in that I can’t hear myself. Not to mention transition on all fronts from moving and starting new things. So these days, my schedule (and heart) have been beating very arrhythmically.
And so if the first thing I think about when I reflect on my goal of writing daily is a sense of disgruntlement, the second thing that comes to mind is trying to remember grace. Grace that there will be external factors upon me, and it would be simply legalistic or inhuman to accommodate the requests that sometimes I can put on myself. My goal did not fly out the window; it simply combusted before my eyes. And I guess I let it. No two days over the past few months have been the same, and it has been extraordinarily hard to keep any rhythm. So I haven’t. (And I know that’s okay!)
This reflection of grace on my lack of writing has taught me that grace has to be a part of my writing process (and life). And so, as today marks the first day of Advent, I immediately sense a feeling of failure followed by a feeling of grace. Or at least a longing for grace. The boxes in my flat seem to be symbolic of my heart being closed and perhaps halfway open to my surroundings as I try to survive and exist. Failure that I’m not starting this holiday out the way I wanted to: unpacked, settled, and ornaments on doorknobs while crafting something wooly today. But in this, I am also reminded that for every shadow side, there is a side of light. There must be. Perhaps if I can figure out a way to live on that side, the knots in my stomach will relax and the grey hair I’m noticing will hold off for another few years.
Today, I chose to light a candle in my everyday candelabra, not in the Advent wreath I wanted to make (the wiring is still packed somewhere), and to light a candle that was already in it, not a special coloured one to mark this first Sunday. I actually like that it is imperfect. I like that it is more real and raw than a polished via an Advent wreath. I like that grace can be found in messiness, and that I can choose it. And that It is there to be had. Hallelujah.
