I wrote a poem this morning. But then, I write a poem every morning. It’s part of my routine when I get up. I meditate, to empty my mind. I read in the bible and think on what I read. I write a poem. If there is time, I write in my journal as well. Some days these things come easily. Other days, it’s a struggle. I don’t want to do it. My brain is flat. I am uninspired. Surely, I tell myself, skipping a day won’t hurt.

And then I bear down, and I write anyway. I pray anyway. I journal anyway.

This makes me, I am told, “prolific”. Perhaps that is so. I don’t really measure that, or measure myself against what others do. What I do know is it does for me. It keeps me sane. It is, I think, why discipline is important. Because when we are in places where the world beats us up, having that discipline keeps me alive at some level. even when I don’t want to be. And I have learned, that sometimes, simply having that discipline, opens us up to produce wonderful things that not only keep us sane, but helps others in their own struggles as well.

It has been, for me, a year of losses. I lost my mother. I lost my father. I ended a long relationship, which was also a deep loss. Other things too were losses in this year, week after week, month after month. It has been unrelenting and I won’t lie and say I did well with it. I have felt battered. I survived it. That is all. And I kept writing, painting, photographing, preaching. Habit. Discipline. I often felt my work was not so good, but I kept at it. At times, I have been told, it was quite good, but I have had trouble sorting it out, the good from the bad. I just kept at the things that help me sort stuff out, rarely feeling things were sorting out, but being aware that somewhere down there, deep inside, it was.

I am not saying nothing went well, that there were no joys in my life. There were plenty. But as soon as I began to feel I could breath again, another loss would rock my world. There were days, lots of them, that I just wanted to crawl into a hole, stop taking my depression medicine, stop fighting for sanity and sleep away my existence. But good habits kept me going. Discipline kept me going. I did my creative work. I did my work work. I did my mental emotional work.

Discipline.

One of those disciplines, and maybe the best and most important of all, is savoring the good. No matter how small. Sun on my face in the fall. A perfect cup of tea. A quiet conversation with friends. Petting the cat that isn’t mine but lives on my back porch. A hug. Deep conversation. Small things compared the sense of loss that cudgeled me so brutally this year. But if savored, if mindfully savored and held close and gratitude spoken out loud for each one, they take on an amazing power. A healing power so strong you would not imagine it could be housed in such a small package.

And it can’t be, unless we’re mindful enough, disciplined enough, to claim them.

I am not going to pretend it is an easy discipline. If it was, we’d all be able to do it. But it does work. God tells us to do it. Bhudda tells us to do it. Other religious and spiritual traditions tell us to do it. And believers in each of those traditions spend countless days and weeks and months and years trying to learn how. Obviously it’s not in our DNA. It takes work. But the work is not hard. The discipline is hard.

Why? Because we live in a world of distractions. An instant world. And we want instant results. Magic pills.

There are no magic pills. I have learned that in my own life and in following the lives of others in my life. There is discipline in small things. Discipline that develops the habits that carry us in good times and bad. Disciplines best learned when life is not a maelstrom, to prepare us for when it is. Each act is not hard – stringing them together in the midst of distractions, even when we don’t want to, is hard.

We are so busy looking for the dramatic change, the amazing discovery, the one big thing that can change our lives, but honestly, I don’ think it’s there. It’s made in small steps. Tiny disciplines. Persistence more than talent or magic.

Part of me finds that encouraging. Knowing the small things make a difference. I’m nothing special. But I can do small things. But part of me hates knowing this., Because the gig is up. It’s up to me.

And so I take a deep breath. And another. And begin again. There’s a new poem to write somewhere. A song to sing. I am tired. I don’t want to do it.

But I’m going to.

Tom