Ten Great Gift Books For Radicals

giftbooksforradicals

Looks like I suddenly got a little Christmas spirit. Amazing! Maybe because I got love-bombed TWICE yesterday with gorgeous plates of homemade Christmas cookies. Y’all, my neighborhood is real with the homemade candy. I was joking about that on Twitter the other day. But my neighbors are not joking. My family got homemade candy…in the shape of legos.

{{{{{swoon}}}}}

So I thought, hey, if you have some radicals in your life, and you think, “What can I give them? They will give me side-eye, or worse, if I give them things that aren’t radical enough.” You can trust me. Here are some great books that every radical needs.

I know I’m way past Cyber Monday for this year — late, late, late! But these are good for non-winter-holiday gift occasions, too, like graduations and birthdays.

Now, remember, to make your radical really happy, buy these direct from the author, or from local bookstores, even if that means they’re late for Christmas. I know that costs a little more, but it’s also super important. Think of it as your healthy world, solidarity economy tithe. And if necessary, tell your radical they aren’t getting anything next year, unless they can teach you to bind your own books with old newspapers.

Have fun!

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Radical Homemakers (topical, alternative lifestyles)

This is a must have. If you know anyone who wants to “reclaim domesticity from a consumer culture,” hook them up with this key piece by Shannon Hayes. She creates the movement simultaneous with documenting the movement. Full of incisive commentary and reportage on radical folks across the country.

The New Self-Sufficient Gardener (how-to, gardening, temporal climates)

My favorite gardening book. And believe me, I have read/looked at/studied a lot of gardening books. So that isn’t coming out of nowhere.

Making It: Radical Home-Ec For a Post-Consumer World (how-to, projects, DIY life)

This is the book my husband would have written, if he had written a book. Which, you know, maybe someday he will. But in the meantime, here is a book of fully laid out, simple projects for the tinkering, “let’s do it and stop talking about it!” radical you love.

Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit (fiction)

This classic novel for radical thinkers is sort of meta. Also it has been around a while. So maybe perfect for the young, millennial radical. In narrative form, Daniel Quinn explores the narratives that shape the way humans interact with our environment. If you could read the earth like a story, what story would it tell?

Sabbath as Resistance: Saying No To the Culture of Now (topical, Christian religion)

For the radical Christian on your list. Walter Brueggemann pretty much nails consumer culture to the wall, with scripture.

The Good Food Revolution: Growing Healthy Food, People and Communities (biography/autobiography)

Got a radical who lives in the city? This one is about urban farming. Relating the personal story of Growing Power CEO Will Allen, it draws all the lines between food and justice, and makes an inspiring case for dismantling racism via food equality.

Farmer Will Allen and the Growing Table (children’s picture book)

Also about Will Allen, but this one is for the kids. A big man with a big truck, hands filled with red wriggler worms, optimism, and hope for the future. It’s a winning combination. Who can see what others can’t see?

Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer (memoir)

For the literary-minded radical, another take on urban farming. Novella Carpenter is funny, messy, rebellious and feeds her pigs out of restaurant trash cans.

The Dirty Life: A Memoir of Farming, Food and Love (memoir)

And I can’t resist, this is my taste right here…another beautifully written memoir for those who aren’t afraid of dirt. This one is half love story and half farming story. It would be a perfect gift for someone like, umm…ME. (Except don’t really give it me because I already have it.)

The Encyclopedia of Country Living (how-to, gardening and homesteading)

Last but not least, this is my mother’s book. Now classic. It’s a huge thing, really heavy. People always say, “Wow…your mother wrote all that?” Mmm hmm, she did. I saw it. It’s a practical research work dotted with vulnerable, often spiritual essays on the author’s own experiences. (And you might find out something about me!)

Happy shopping!

Questioning Christmas (at Accidental Devotional)

Stella hanging ornaments

I’m over at my friend Abby’s place today, putting the Christ back in Christmas. Because you know that’s the fashionable thing for Christians to do at this time of year.

(hee hee)

No, seriously…

This essay is only another aspect of the question I’m always asking. How far are we supposed to take all this? Are we supposed to find a line between the worldly life and the spiritual life and just kind of walk that balance beam? Or is there a way to dive deeper than that? Be exploded more fully than that?

Here’s the clip…

It was the year I was five years old that I got a doll for Christmas. It came in a shiny, domed plastic package. It had styled hair, and a poofy dress. It had real shoes that you could take off and put back on again. I looked at it in absolute wonder.

It was simply inexplicable to me, how that strange thing got underneath my tree.

You see, I was never a child who liked dolls. I didn’t dream of dolls of any kind, but much less the plastic ones with fancy dresses. Surely Santa would know that my radical environmentalist mother didn’t buy things like that, and in the case of the doll I had never begged her to. I wanted toys with wheels, or animals. In my wildest dreams, maybe a microscope….

The rest is here.

Come on over! Tell Abby hello while you’re there. :)

How the Year of Ambition Turned Into Another Year of Authenticity

mores creek

In January of this year I selected one word to ruminate and write on. This was in the tradition of one word New Year’s resolutions, #oneword365. This time, though, it wasn’t so much that I selected my word, as that it came for me. I said it one day, by accident, and it made my adrenaline surge. It made my heart get squishy.

It was a word that had come for me before, both in my own life and my mother’s life. An unkind word, and yet a word that makes me who I am. It was the word that drove me to graduate from high school at age 15, and to race head down through the years of short nights and fierce competition that gave me a freelance theatre career in my late twenties. I had run from this word. I had rejected it, feeling that it had betrayed me. Now here it was, knocking at my door again.

Ambition.

At the time I had a book in my pocket, which I knew was good, but also knew would require confidence to sell. I had all sorts of words in my pockets, which might fly, even in fragile packaging, who knows how far? And, deeper than the words, I had the source of the words. Fierce and dense and authentic. I had something powerful moving in my life. I felt the pull and push of that, the pull of some deep terrifying joy matched blow for blow by a kind of inarticulate revulsion.

Into the breach, my heart.

The very next thing that happened was everything wrong. Just a few weeks after the turning of the calendar year I stepped into a blackberry thicket of personal setbacks. In every arena, from friendship loss to homesteading failures to financial difficulty, I just took it in the chin.

My computer broke. My car broke down, three times. My bees were dead. Some of you remember the night I had to open my accidentally locked yurt with a crochet hook, while my three children were throwing up sick in a borrowed car. I’ll spare you the details, but whole months of this year were like that. Just stupidly difficult. I forgot all about being called to anything in particular. I forgot about something powerful moving in my life. If I felt called at all, it was often to the head-down tangles of a day-to-day existence.

A new friend asked me the other day if I believe in spiritual warfare. I do. This is how it manifests itself in my life. It is the way I am tangled, and enmeshed, such that I can forget that something powerful is moving in my life. It is the way I come to think that my personal failures and setbacks somehow equal the failure of the source. It is the way that an authentic ambition – a faithful desire to grow as tall a tree as God has planted – slides quite so easily into something that also goes by the name of greed.

By a trick as much internal as external, measures of success are transformed into measures of failure. A gold ring becomes half of two gold rings. There is not enough. The spoon is empty. This is the most I know of darkness. It leads the way to a hundred kinds of wrong.

And I have seen it before, up close. I put my head down.

Mid-stream, the year of ambition became another year of authenticity. Another year of searching for the place where God meets me, internal…that place where infinity trickles through this imperfect instrument. It became another year of trying to tell the whole truth of what I believe, without pulling my punches. It became another year of doubling down on the homestead, reconnecting values with actions and getting back to what we believe is right. It became a year of accepting that failures are a natural part of this long road, but counterculture is still possible.

Meanwhile…my words march on, if still in fragile packaging. This IS the year in which I signed with a powerful Christian literary agency, and became a regular contributor at two online magazines. It IS the year in which I became connected in inspiring ways to a number of more experienced writers and journalists. It is the year that I close with renewed confidence that my first book will make the leap. I believe more than ever that it has what it takes to be presented by a publisher to the Christian market…although, please, squeals and encouragements are still premature.

But I am feeling grateful. I am ending this year full of gratitude, both for the ambition that doubles for bravery and for the dark patches that temper it.

If anything, each year passing is making me more sensitive, not less. Each year makes me a bit more vulnerable to feelings of gain and loss, joy and failure. But it also gives me this gathering weight of years…heaping up on my shoulders like a blanket. It gives me the sure knowledge that although I go through the thicket, again and again, also each time I come out the other side. And when I emerge, it is with clearer sight, each time more able to tell the difference between what is infinite and true and what is passing.

The thicket will pass. The tangles are temporary. The day-to-day desperation is real but also not real. More real is the trickle of infinity that makes its home here, even in the midst of throwing up sick kids and broken cars and failures. The spoon is full.

Ten Ways a White Person Can Be Interrupted by the Ferguson Movement

blacksquareI have just been in a million conversations with white people about allyship. All weekend long. We have a ton of questions. To protest or not to protest? To post pictures of oneself getting arrested or not to post pictures of oneself getting arrested? To preach sermons about race or not to preach sermons about race? And, incidentally, how many hours per day is it acceptable to spend worrying about whether or not we’re doing this right?

I’m going to state my position on this as simply as I can. I believe the most important thing a white person can do, today, to help the Ferguson movement, is to BE INTERRUPTED. Accept the interruption. Accept that there is something profoundly wrong, and something profoundly right wants to grow to replace that wrong. Accept this fact as deeply and truly as possible, even to the extent that it might alter your deepest sense of self.

News flash: this is not actually very sexy work. It’s not the kind of work that gets you awards and accolades. Or, hello, it would have been done already. It’s much more like sorting dirty laundry.

I often see white people, especially ones in leadership, wanting to work on racism via our public selves. This is basically socially acceptable, partly because we are in an era in which we work on a lot of things via our public selves. Start with your Instagram and then work backward into your soul, right? But I digress.

Allyship fails in the distance between our public and private selves. This is the distance between our most altruistic selves and the selves we aren’t so proud of. I don’t mean to say that racism doesn’t happen at high noon, because of course it does. And I don’t mean that we should fail to speak with our voices and our bodies, too. But I am concerned that granting validity only to the wide open, can’t-be-missed indications of prejudice leaves a huge dark spot in shadow. And I believe that it is precisely in that shadow that we are breeding the fear and intolerance that maintains racial violence and persistent inequality as the norm for all.

It was with this phenomenon in mind that I put together this quick resource list for BEING interrupted. Not just causing an interruption, but experiencing one, in a private, personal, working-on-yourself kind of way. This list is created with a white reader in mind, although it may be interesting reading for anyone. And, whether you use this list or not, please consider it an invitation to all, even the most publicly anti-racist saints of the heart among us, to find ways to challenge the internal prejudices housed in our private, most secret selves.

Ten ways a white person can be interrupted by Ferguson, and the Ferguson movement:

  1. Subscribe to this newsletter. “This is the movement” by DeRay and Netta. Read the articles they link. If you ever find thinking to yourself, how can I possibly help?!!…maybe try taking their suggestions.
  2. Follow this list on Twitter. Maybe this list, too. Word to the wise, this can overwhelm your feed real quick. And it is perfectly possible that there would be some feelings of resentment related to that inconvenience. Try to put those feelings into context. What is it, exactly, that is being inconvenienced by ALL THE TWEETS?
  3. Read the words of POC writers and activists until they say something that makes you feel ALL THE FEELS. Depending on your habits, this could take a while or it could take like five seconds. Whatever it is, instead of bouncing back from it, arguing with it, or retaliating, just hold it, for as long as you can stand. Hold it, and breathe, like a stretch. Repeat.
  4. Take some time to observe the makeup of your friends list, like this woman did. But don’t do it for your public self. Do it for your private self. So it’s not like, Oh damn, I need more black friends to the tune of XX percent. It’s more like, My  view of the world is white-washed to the tune of XX percent. Hmm. Maybe I don’t actually know all the things I thought I knew. (Incidentally, her follow-up post is here, if you want to know how it goes to do that with your public self.)
  5. Watch this (super disturbing) video of the choke hold injury that resulted in death for Eric Garner.
  6. Watch this (super disturbing) video of the gunshot injury that resulted in death for 12-year-old Tamir Rice.
  7. Now, watch this video of a speech by A’Driane Nieves. Or read the text here. Observe that she is responding TO a problem rather than CAUSING a problem. Now, observe that if you hadn’t watched those other two videos (and maybe you still haven’t, actually, but I’m not here to judge…) you might feel outrage towards HER instead of outrage towards THE ACTUAL VIOLENCE. Ask yourself if your feelings have ever been drawn through this kind of bait and switch. I’ll bet they have. I know mine have.
    ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^You guys, this is a really key and prevalent phenomenon, in which people of color are identified as ANGRY or AGGRESSIVE or IMMATURE, because they are responding audibly to violence that didn’t make it past our filters. Let me say this again. Completely articulate and accurately informed people of color are disbelieved and/or identified as problematic, because they are responding visibly to violence we didn’t have the stomach to watch. Let’s see what we can do about changing THAT.
  8. Reach into your pocket. Maybe skip a dinner out and donate to the Ferguson bail fund. Or donate to The Gathering For Justice. Now, if you are skipping past this one real quick, maybe just ask yourself if that’s really because it would be so crazy to support protestors? Or if it is just basically that you don’t want to part with your money. Which maybe is a privilege? Which maybe is a privilege related to race? Okay, yeah, let’s go here. Consider that maybe racial prejudice is deeply entangled with financial privilege and greed, at levels that we don’t even know how to acknowledge. BECAUSE THAT SUPERHIGHWAY DOES NOT WANT TO BE INTERRUPTED.
  9. Maybe it’s easier just to buy the tee-shirt. That’s money, too. Do read it before you wear it, though.
  10. And understand that those tee-shirts aren’t big enough. Maybe get a pen and paper and write down all these names. Oh, these names, too. Maybe even, just for context, ALL THESE NAMES.

I know, that would take a long time, wouldn’t it? It took a long time to enact all this violence, and my lifetime is not long enough to witness it all. But think of it this way. If this work had already been done, it would be done. And in our hearts, I believe that’s what we really want.

Stars Dancing (Church in the Woods for Advent)

Christmas sceneWho has the power to believe in miracles?

I asked the woods. And was met with uncharacteristic silence. The darkness of the year and the darkness of a fallen world converge. Bad news seems to come from everywhere. “Are you serious? Right now? This, too?” I feel like I’m losing even the last and most narrow thread of light.

Seriously. Can this possibly be Advent? Can this possibly be the promise of a miracle? This season of torture and murder and loss? Is this a joke?

I don’t know if there are cycles to the darkness. I don’t know if there is darker dark one year than another. But I do know this. The distance between a consumer-frenzied, accomplishment-oriented understanding of Christmas and the deep, deep yearning of my soul is growing ridiculous. It could take down the Titanic.

You think a little holiday shopping will meet this need? Who are you kidding? 

And the radio says to me, “Jesus is the reason for the season,” but that also makes me want to kick things. It isn’t Jesus who is the reason for this season. It is my parched throat, longing, prayer, the whisper of a desperate soul. Need. It is darkness, falling.

And the dark is dark.

Who has the power to believe in miracles? I asked, and yet received no comfort. No warmth in these bare twigs, no blessing in this frozen ground. Don’t offer me your Christmas jingle. Don’t make me laugh.

Whom shall I seek? 

Is it the trees, stripped and bare, but standing? Is it the dark earth who will teach me how to gestate hope?

No. There is a vibration from above. A snatch of a song. There is a memory imprinted in these constellations: pin pricks of beauty stark against the black of abyss. Suddenly the darkness carries a sweet smell. Is that jasmine? No. This is only a memory.

And yet, there they are. Undeniable. Stars, dancing.

Is it the trees who will teach me to stand the deepest darkness, stripped but tall? Is it the dark earth who can teach me how to gestate hope? Yes, perhaps, if I had stomach for their teaching. But first I will follow one bright star. First I will persevere, not because I hope for myself but because the star hopes for me.

I will follow this promise, that as far as we swing in our journey away from the light, still we live among the marvelous, the glorious, the amazing. Still, we are sisters to the stars and still they dance.

And we are chosen, yet. Even in this dark of dark, yet we are children of the beautiful, and the extraordinary. Yet we have stardust in our blood, and we may falter, but we will not fail. The light will come, and we will stand with the light.

It’s astonishing, really. The miracle of it. That in full darkness comes this prize, the one star shining hope.

Faith, Interrupting (at SheLoves Magazine)

Stella with her sign

I’m at SheLoves Magazine today, writing about race, the dream of post-racial America, and how Christians can be a part of the disruption that interrupts that suffocating dream.

I’m also going to add here that the protest I spoke of was one with POC leadership and I was invited to attend by a person of color. Because it might look like I got my white friends and we all went and stood in front of cars, and that would be NOT actually what I am recommending. (I’m g0ing to tweet some details about that on twitter TL in just a minute…)

Friends, protesting with our bodies can take different forms. Standing in the street isn’t the only way, and it isn’t always the best way. But all our protesting should be this disruptive. If we are not disrupted — INTERRUPTED — we can just keep slipping back into complacency and rest, while other precious human beings are struggling for breath and life.

Here’s the excerpt.

I get it that when we protest we look like rabble rousers, maybe obstructing justice (although I don’t believe in that definition of justice.) I get it that the stream of life doesn’t want to be interrupted in this way. People want the problem to go away, and those of us standing on street corners shouting and waving signs may seem like we are creating this problem instead of addressing it.

But here’s what I want you to know about me and protesting:

That circle of silence, lifting up the sacred dignity of Mike Brown for four and a half minutes in the middle of the street, was the closest I have been to church in a while.

The rest is here. Come on over.

Church in the Woods at Deeper Story and Thirty Seconds Or Less

birds nest

I’m having an odd week, as a writer. I have my stuff up all over the place, and it’s vulnerable, true stuff. But because these pieces are up at other places, traveling through other channels, they are delivered with a time lag. So I have this stuff up that was felt very truly when it was written, but now my heart is tangled up somewhere else.

Basically, if you’re expecting me to write about Ferguson, protesting and pursuit of racial reconciliation in the United States…? The answer is yes, I am expecting that, too. But these are the things I have in my hands, so I’ll be generous with them.

The church in the woods is exported to two places today.

At Deeper Story, “The Moon Can See the Sun, And Other Reasons Not To Be Afraid.”

“Mommy, is the moon on fire, like the sun?”

(That’s my middle daughter talking.)

“Nope. It’s just a big rock.” We’re on the way to the bathroom, as we always are at bedtime. We live in a yurt with no indoor plumbing, so our bathroom is outside.

“How is it lit up, then?”

“Umm…” Her eyes are fixed up on the sky, but I am craning my neck over her squishy purple coat, picking my way carefully in big boots down frozen steps. “It isn’t really. It’s just making a reflection, like a mirror. It reflects the light of the sun.”

“But the sun is gone.”

I set her down. “Oh, no, honey. The sun isn’t gone. It’s just around on the other side. We can’t see the sun right now, but the moon can.”

{more}

And at Thirty Seconds or Less (#30SOL), a concise retelling of what the woods have taught me about beauty.

Enjoy!

Love From the Church in the Woods, and the Latest Fouch-o-matic Video

Happy holiday Thursday, friends and readers! We are not cooking an off grid turkey today, although if our schedule had turned out differently, we were prepared to do that. We did make four pies.

pumpkin pies

Yum.

I am coming up on a couple of issue driven articles, for sites other than my own. So brace yourselves, I guess. Or maybe I mean brace me. As always, I am trying to balance my speaking (writing) with the silence and prayer that gives me something to say in the first place, which means probably radio silence from me this holiday weekend.

You’ll just have to imagine me having pie for breakfast.

In the meantime, our November video is up on the Fouch-o-matic YouTube channel! Appropriately for the season, it’s all about how we cook pretty much normal food, even without electric toaster, microwave or stove.

#5 — Cooking Without Electricity

Not so incidentally, it sure didn’t look like that when we first came up here. And it still doesn’t look quite like that when I am cooking. {sigh} I mean, the stove works the same, but the food is more likely bean soup and toasted cheese sandwiches.

Anyway. Happy holidays to you! Please know that your yurt friends are thinking of you today, as we cook and eat (where we are) and you cook and eat (where you are.) Here’s a wish on the wind.

happy soul food,
happy heart food,
happy prayerfulness,
happy perseverance
happy gathering.

with love, from the church in the woods.

For a Grief That Roars

waterfallToday is not the day for me to sit in my silence.

I, like many white Christians concerned about justice, have been confused by my role in racial reconciliation. I have felt cases in which I have overstepped. I have felt the indignity of being told that it was my turn to sit down and shut up.

But I have also felt the chill of my own quiet.

I have felt all those days when I don’t say anything because I don’t have to say anything. Because I don’t HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING. I have cast my prayers for the people in corporate worship. I have released the tension of my own guilt. I have gone about my ways. And I have thought to myself, “Oh, my grief is the same as the grief of a black mother, because I grieve the injustice of the world, and I grieve the terrible tragedy of recent events. How, I grieve!”

And I do.

But let me get my drawers in order here. I have not been told that my son may be shot on the street with impunity. I have not been told that channels of protest are closed to me unless I break down doors, and if I do break doors I’m no better than an animal. I have not been told that I’m going about it all wrong, that when my grief breaks the cage of respectability and emerges into the spark of revolution that I have become destructive, unhelpful, and a legitimate target for punishing force. I have not been told that the situation as is is going to stay as is, even when my cries of grief have reached a pinnacle beyond which I have no voice. Even when I am mourning deep, full loss…real bloody death…the loss of human lives.

Friends, do not think that this grief is not laced with fear. Do not think that is possible for a white person to share this grief, fully, without understanding that there is fear.

What would it be like, if you could get killed? And nobody would get in trouble for it? 

WHAT WOULD THAT BE LIKE?

I have little to say today to those who believe that justice has been done in Ferguson, where a Grand Jury has found that the officer who used deadly force against an unarmed man should not be charged or brought to trial. Talk to me another day.

But I also don’t want to hear character assassination of the black protestors who looted and destroyed. I also don’t want to hear about how misguided they are, how out of control they are, how they’re disrupting the proper channels of justice. I don’t want to hear about street violence in Ferguson at all, unless it is in the context of institutionalized racial violence over centuries. And by institutionalized racial violence I mean white violence against people of color…over centuries. The crime that begets crime.

Of course I am hearing things like this. I hear things like this in my day-to-day conversations, with white people in a white community, which is where I live. I struggle with what it means for me to engage. I struggle with how much I should say, how much I should risk, how many people’s feelings I should hurt. I struggle with what words to say, and what words I should not say.

But I know this much. Today is not the day for me to sit in my silence.

For all who seek for justice, I pray that we would know a grief that roars. I pray that we would know a grief that is visceral and deep and fully human. I pray that we could risk this much, to know what it would mean to have no choice but to open our mouths and let the grief pour out.

10 Ways to Simplify Your Life

Oh, this one is just a freebie. Just for fun. Esther’s ten tips for simplification…whether you’re working on the carbon footprint, or the monthly budget, or creating space for more spiritual pursuits.

10 ways to simplify
1. Let Yourself Run Out of Things.
The day that you run out of Ziploc bags is the day that you figure out how to reuse the bread bags. The day that you are running out of dish soap, you may find that you use only half as much. It’s scary sometimes, I know. But it must be done.
2. Write it Down. Say it Out Loud. Hear Yourself Saying It.
“Purchased hot beverage…four dollars, seventy-five cents.”
“Purchased hot beverage…one non-recyclable paper cup.”
“Purchased hot beverage…9 minutes driving, 6 minutes in store = 15 minutes…of my precious life
Cost/Hourly Wage = Value in Work Hours
4. Use Your Imagination.
Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. “My life without this object/habit/distraction looks like…”
5. Share.
Share a car. Share a house. Share an outfit, or a color of nail polish. It’s generosity and simplicity at the same time. Or, you could say, free storage for your things when you aren’t using them.
6. Take the Challenge.
Some people do crossword puzzles. Some people do Sudoku. Some people come up with creative ways to simplify their lives.
7. Make Tiny Changes.
Failure isn’t fun. Don’t set yourself up.
8. Keep the Chaos, Lose the Container.
Every kind of chaos can be contained in the appropriate container. If your stuff won’t stay where you put it, consider that you might need to change where you put it. If you can’t get yourself on time, you might need to change the schedule. If you keep the container the same and try to change the chaos instead? You might make yourself very tired.
9. Don’t Have Stuff You Can’t See.
If you can’t see it, you don’t use it. And if it isn’t a part of your life, why is it a part of your life? See Item #4. Are you going to need it later? See Item #5. But you really, really, love it? Then bring it out and let it make you happy.
10. Keep a List of Things You Don’t Want To Do, But Are Going to Do Anyway.
Avoidance wastes resources. Admit that you don’t feel like doing it. “I don’t feel like doing this!” Put for as long as you need to, sure. But then get it off the list. And find yourself a little lighter when you do.