It’s Sunday, I’ve had another long week at work, my muscles and my joints hurt everywhere, and I’m at the yoga class. I really would rather not be there. I can’t be asked to do vinyasas and breath audibly and turn my attention inwards.
I kind of want to sulk a little bit because on Friday evening, as I was at the pub having beers with old friends, I received an email from the only literary agent that had requested to read the entire manuscript of The Love Project. And the email said “Although there was much to be admired, we feel we don’t love it enough to champion it”.
Reading that email felt just like I felt went I went on a few promising dates with a guy I liked before he told me ‘I am not looking for a relationship.” It wasn’t the rejection that hurt; what hurt was knowing the effort it took to get me there and the effort it took to get me there again. Knowing that it took dozens of online conversations to get one date, a chance in a thousand for that one date to lead to a second date and a chance in a hundred thousand for that second date to lead to a relationship.
I am upset this morning because it took 20 agent rejections to get that one agent to read it and that it will take another 20 to get another one to give me a chance. I am annoyed because I know I have to start all over again and that it’s already been three years of constant effort to make this book happen and I’ve been promising it to people for ages but still have nothing to show for myself. I am irritated but, against my best efforts not to enjoy the yoga class this morning, I go ahead with the dreaded vinyasas and uncomfortable poses, and lower back pain and neck strain and make it through to the final relaxation pose. And I realise I am actually ok. I realise that the irritation and annoyance come from somewhere else, from a leftover version of myself, quick to judge that if I’m being rejected then maybe something is wrong with me. I realise that I know better, I’ve been through this already and I know that nothing, absolutely nothing will stop me from carrying on, making the book better if it must, and keep on trying until the right door opens.
And as I finish my Om chanting and bow my head with my hands in prayer against my heart and hear the teacher say: “Don’t forget that what you seek is seeking you,” an uncontrollable emotion washes over me. And I know, deep in my heart, that what I seek is right now seeking for me too.