My Avoidance of Quiet Idling

Over the last few months, I've dreamt about writing. It hasn't been the main focal point in any of the dreams, but more like a response to the dream, within the dream.

Most recently, I woke with a pressured chested of anxiety, having had a dream where I actually hit "publish" to a piece on this here blog.
In a response to the contents of the dream, I remember thinking, "I've got to write about this!"

Whatever "this" was is now lost to me, however, that feeling I had, of a clenched heart, startled waking, to the non-reality of actually having written about it, has certainly echoed in my mind, often.

It's bothered me to say the least.
Surprisingly deep response to something so simple surfaced.
But, written words have always been my safest place.
A 'go-to' of self expression.
A place I can't hide myself from.
A therapeutic process of reality, if you will.
A perspective provider.
A place I've always felt so comfortable.
A place I now feel such haste.

It's nothing more than me avoiding the process of exposing self vulnerability, striped with the sense of my need to have order of operation.

How am I suppose to genuinely write about Wesley's birthday, without having worked through the cowardly reality of me at the Dempsey Challenge prior to that.

Forwarding to the good, makes me feel like I'm slighting it, by avoiding addressing the less than happy.
 
I'm the master of distraction and have happily thrown myself into other areas that I find as self gratifying in solidifying my journey in 'best life fueling'.

However, I know I'm not experiencing it all at the peak of my best self.
Despite being more certain than ever about my path, I'm in this weird place where I'm less sure of my steps.

A month ago, I posted on my Goodnyou? Facebook page this picture...

"I'll admit, I found myself falling down the well of mental dwelling, this morning. I know nothing but insecurity and self doubt are at the bottom. regardless, I let myself topple over that edge and did little to try and slow the descend. I sometimes don't do well in an area of quiet idle. Today is one of those times. So I'm now outside, letting the big snow flakes distract me, watching a pheasant jump into a tree."

The heart is in the confession that "I sometimes don't do well in the quiet idle".
My resistant to that hollow space, is the first sign it's exactly where I need to curl myself into.
It's where my subconscious' crave for me to submerge with writing and self re-alignment.
I've spend at least 20 years building the crutch of its security and the last year denying it by avoidance.

until today