On devotion
The transformational power of commitment
It’s been months, again, since I have last written to you, and I’m finding a kind of pleasure in that. A pleasure in allowing myself to move slowly, to write less out of obligation and more out of pure want. I want to write today. I’ve been wanting to write for many days, but many more of the days I have spent not writing have been days I have not wanted to write. It feels good to honor that. Thank you for being patient with me. I trust that you’d rather read something that feels lit from within, which is how I feel right now, finally writing again.
My partner and I moved four hours north in mid-January, on the coldest day of the year. We had been hunting for a little cabin in the woods, near big water (Lake Michigan), but as it happened, we found the perfect little house in the middle of town—walkable to smaller water (one of the bays of Lake Michigan), to the bookstore, the café, the food co-op. We have been nesting, making this place into a home, creating our little life up here, and it’s been wonderful and overwhelming. I feel so lucky. I am so lucky.
Now I have an entire room devoted to working and writing and whatever else I want. It’s full of windows, it has a desk, it has bookshelves, and now it has this little daybed situation where I can rest as I write. I can feel a future version of myself finishing many books in here. I love it. I love having a space of my own, a room, a house, that I get to commit myself to. I’m committed to washing the dishes everyday, committed to keeping it clean, committed to drawing the shades at night and opening them in the morning, committed to living with the person I love, committed to living in a town I moved away from two years ago and thought I’d never live in again, committed to being near water—being near water for the rest of my life. I feel devoted to this life, committed to it in a way that I don’t think I was before.
I’ve been thinking a lot about devotion and commitment, and what they both mean in the context of chronic illness, and also in the context of being an artist.
It’s funny, “commitment” can be defined two ways:
the state or quality of being dedicated to a cause, activity, etc.
an engagement or obligation that restricts freedom of action.
This feels entirely accurate as it relates to chronic illness and being an artist, or at least it feels accurate to the way I feel about my commitment to both.
On one hand, living with chronic illness feels restrictive of my freedom. I feel restricted physically, mentally, emotional, energetically—today, actually, Izzy and I went for a walk along the shore of Lake Michigan and realized too late that we had walked too far. We struggled to walk back. It completely wiped us out. This is a small example, but it feels like a metaphor for life itself as a chronically ill person. I always have to calculate how much energy I spend (on walking, on socializing, on anything really) because it runs out so quickly. Chronic illness is deeply restrictive. It prevents me from putting 100% into anything I do because I won’t have the energy to come back from it.
On the other hand, I feel deeply committed to living in a way that honors my chronic illness. I’m committed to stopping at 75 or 50% and turning back around. I’m committed to resting as much as possible. I’m committed to saying no to the things that will exhaust me. I’m committed to working from home, to working from bed, to not drinking alcohol anymore, to getting 8 or more hours of sleep. Izzy is about three weeks into a major health protocol and I have adopted it, too. I’m doing it in solidarity with them, to support them, because I am devoted to them and our relationship, but I’m also doing it in devotion to my own health and recovery. We eat, rest, sleep, stretch, walk, hydrate, and bathe in accordance to a highly specific set of rules that are allowing our bodies and cells to repair themselves. It’s been difficult, but beautiful. It has been the ultimate lesson in commitment.
Similarly, being a writer, or any kind of artist I imagine, is at once restrictive and life-giving. I feel chained to this book. This novel that will never finish itself until I use what free time I have to write. Writing, and all art-making, involves sacrifice. It involves self-restriction. Time management. For me, personally, it means not working on other writing (sorry to the monthly workshop that I owe a short story to) until this project is complete. It also means showing up as much as possible. Showing up to the desk, to the page. The only way the book will be finished is by committing to finishing it.
There was a point in time when I really was writing everyday. That’s when I finished the first draft of my novel. The only way it happened was by showing up. Every. Single. Day. For however long or short of time I happened to have. No magic formula, no special trick, just commitment. Devotion to the outcome. Devotion to myself as a writer.
What I’m noticing now, as I commit so fully to my health, is that commitment really does transform one’s life. I can slowly feel myself growing stronger. My inflammation is decreasing—a pain I’ve had in my shoulder for years, a pain that’s kept me awake at night, has finally gone away. Though I’m tired all the time, and I have no hopes that my disease will ever be “cured,” I’m feeling more confident that maybe one day I’ll be able to bring 100% to whatever is in front of me.
And with writing, I’ve witnessed it before (as I said). Commitment transforms ideas into real, tangible art. It just does.
In March, I want to do a little devotional experiment. I want to write every single day and keep a log of sorts. I don’t know if that will be in the form of a daily “note” (I don’t know how to use those but I can try to figure it out), or maybe a weekly log that I will relay here. I want to commit, again, to my work the same way I’ve committed to taking care of my body.
If anyone else is inspired, feel free to join me. Maybe we can make it a sort of Devotion Club.
xo, Lys
<3 ♾️
Beautiful