On the seven (7) thoughts revisited & week 30 of 52
What we think is the way we see, and everything is different than it was a year ago.
We are always changing. Inside, we’re always recalibrating, finding a slightly different balance point as our bodies regenerate one cell at a time. As we age, the way we see the world is in flux.
Let’s do a thought experiment.
Where were you and what did you look like this time last year? What did you think about most, and why?
Around this time last year, I wanted to complete a new writing project after my essay collection. Specifically, I wanted to create something influenced by vision and presence rather than memory (forward momentum, not backward). And I wondered if the tone of my writing voice would still resonate if I changed course.
I wrote here about John O’Donohue’s concept of the 7 thoughts and shared a few of my own. Rereading them just now brought me back and made me realize how different I am today. Just a year removed.
As O’Donohue said, our thoughts exist in the darkness, where no one else can see. Our “doing” or accomplishments are only a fraction of who we are and often have little to do with our artistic expression.
What lives behind the silence, behind the polite smile, is what feeds our art. And what’s living there sure can change.
If you were with me here on the blog last year, let’s do this again. If you weren’t, here’s some background: O'Donohue suggested challenging ourselves to think about the 7 thoughts that dominate our inner lives. A year ago, I asked … If there are 7 dominant thoughts, and we change them, will that change our work [as writers]?
So take a moment and ask yourself what 7 thoughts dominate your inner landscape right now.
A year ago, I thought about the beauty of small moments, the discomfort of being copied as a writer and not being given credit, the journey of my life and whether I’d leave anything of value, and how I needed to show more gratitude. In my private journals, I realized some of my regular thoughts were quite negative. I found worry and pain in the messaging. I doubt this is unique.
A year later, there’s still a mix. Here are my dominate thoughts in November 2024:
I'm grateful.
I need to relax.
Teaching is the most rewarding thing I've ever done. I hope I do it well [today, this week, this workshop].
Suffering connects us, but is it necessary? Is that why all this is happening?
Honest words will be rarer and all the more precious each day.
Reach out more to the people I love.
I should probably be writing, but I think I’ll walk the dogs first.
So much of what sustains our mental space daily can be encapsulated in 7 or so recurring thoughts. Maybe more or fewer, but if you can distill things down to 7, it’s a self-study practice like no other I’ve done.
It allows us to ask ourselves where we can benefit from change. The call to action is that our most transcendent capabilities lie within our projection of the world.
When we are stagnant or carry forward certain thought patterns, it might be because we haven’t yet fully explored what’s behind them. I truly believe that repeating ideas is not a mental illness but a mental technique. We repeat ideas to lessen their power over us.
AYTL exercise: What are your 7 thoughts now, and what do you most want to create? What would you like these thoughts to be? Keep them somewhere safe, and revisit them toward the end of 2025.
Writing prompt: Write a poem that leverages these 7 thoughts and distills each into a unique image.
I would love to know what came up for you. If you feel safe to do so, share one or two below.
My 7 thoughts: Love more; care more; worry less; enjoy more; notice more; write things; be in nature every day.
An encapsulating poem:
A small bird
long thin bill, fluffy feathers
gem green on its back
An Anna’s hummingbird, it turns out
froze to death outside our house
while we were freezing (not to death)
over Thanksgiving in Colorado.
Looking for food
(our feeder was empty)
It dive-bombed its own image
hit the sliding door
fell to the wood deck
caught its foot in a crack
and—stunned—
laid there until cold overtook it.
It wasn’t torpor
(I looked that up)
Because the tiny fellow didn’t move at all
for a good five days
the wind ruffling downy spots on its swollen face
black eyes turned to slits.
There was a little bird in this world
And then all of a sudden
there wasn’t.
And I can’t get that hummingbird
and its fast-beating once-beating now-stilled heart
out of my mind.
I feel
pain for its end
wonder at its beauty
Gratitude
knowing that every being that has lived is the all of life.