Intention has been the missing piece for me - the piece that connects mind to body, that touches my soul into purpose. How funny it is that much of what we all do in a day involves so little intention. I find myself, even now, doing things not because I have the intention to do them, but for a myriad of other reasons. Perhaps I am knitting to avoid doing the dishes, rather than for the joy of the project, and the intention of finishing it. Maybe I am writing because it means I can close the door and make my partner watch our kids for ten minutes. I'm side stepping the intentionality of my actions, instead settling for the void, the negative intention. I should write to write, not with the intention of being in a quiet space for ten minutes! If I need that ten minutes of space, I can take them, no guilt, no need to guilt myself about those 'wasted' ten minutes.
I struggle with this balance. Finding intention in everyday life can be hard - harder still when my phone and tablet are ever-present, waiting to distract me with an intention-numbing game or a ebook that I'm only reading because it was $.99. I struggle with intention in the technologic world I exist in. Perhaps intention and will are related, and I am still willfully dipping my toe in every puddle and pond, seeking exciting new sensation. My concentration too is limited. How can it not be when I must switch from dishes to making a snack, back to dishes, check on a boo-boo.
The intention of reading the book (this one cost $7.99 thank you!) is lost when I must do it in 1.6 minute stints between chores or summons. And yet, perhaps the persistence of that action fertilizes the intention, allows it to flourish in the rocky crags of child rearing. Perhaps intention just evolves, mutates into something smaller, more hardy - a bonsai tree - that can be moved about, set down, picked up. Probably even occasionally dropped.