The kids of summer play at the park just out behind my back yard. Sage rests easily in the orangey-green grass. My coffee has not ended yet today, and I always get excited when I have more left in the pot. Five cups a day, usually done by 1.
Substance of ideas flood my mind, saturating into the fibers of it, staining my thoughts. The thoughts are colorful and woven erratically, and I must simply trust they will weave their own beautiful garment in which to wrap myself. All I can do is be the fibers.
What the hell am I talking about? This is what happens. I go off on tangents and get too deep and weird, and then lose everything. And it takes so much just to bring me back. Maybe I shouldn’t be going back.
The Subaru sits next to the dolphin. Pearl and Stud. It’s funny how similar in color they are. Brother and sister. Next to them sit my dead plants in containers piled on top of a palette I so badly wanted my dad to deliver to me so many months ago. I’ve found the place to rebuild the garden, and this time it will sustain life, though I have not yet begun it. The story of my life. All the things I want to do.
In May, I fully committed myself to Stoic philosophy, complete with a weird, solo ceremony involving swirling tea and smoky sage and burning candle and journal. I’ve never committed to a religion or a philosophy before. I’ve never felt aligned with one or another. But since researching Stoicism over the last few years, I have decided that, for me, it is truth. I cannot argue it, and I believe in its principles.
I have been thinking of my guiding principles lately. My values. Mark Manson says, “the way you measure yourself is how you measure others, and how you assume others measure you.”
It’s so true, and all that means is that we should stop judging others by our own standards, and just because something is right or wrong for us does not mean it’s right or wrong for another person.
I have so much to say because I have not said any of it over the last however many months, so now I feel overwhelmed to say anything. It’s like when you haven’t talked to a close friend in quite a while, and the greater the time that passes, the longer call you think you’ll need, so you never end up just calling when you have a minute because it won’t be enough. But it is enough.
I have to start somewhere.
So I am starting here.
Where is here? Where I am at right now? What do I know right now?
I am on to something. I’m downwind from creativity, and I have caught its scent. There is a full pot of creativity on the stove this week, especially today. Each idea is elusive; each a wild animal who cannot be bottled or contained or restrained, but rather ridden. That’s all one can do; just ride. Choose one to harness, and then ride. Lately, I let them go by, not knowing which to choose or feeling afraid of the ride once I do. It’s that Resistance.
The house behind mine, just across the gravel alley, is deserted. Closed up. Empty. Well, except for the trash. And the cats I have seen inside. They put a new roof on it, I am sure as a result of pressure from the city. It’s sad. That place was once a home, and now it sits there melting into time. Some people need homes, and some homes need people. That bungalow could be a gem.
I am seeing potential everywhere. It’s everywhere all the time, and I don’t know which to choose. The dreaming often seems the best part, and I hate to say that. It’s the downside of the dreamer; the curse of the blessing.