If I let it all go, the letting go waxes and then, eventually, it wanes, until I am thirsting for structure and order. Normally I rebuild the structure and get back on track. Tear down and build. Tear down and build. Haven’t I been doing this for too long? Don’t I know a little more about what I need?
The older I get, the more clear the patterns become and I realize some things are so constantly necessary, they don’t need to be torn down. Instead of tearing everything down that I have built and then rebuilding the same structure over and over again when I decide I need more structure, I should just keep a little more structure around. After all, I require the same components for my ideal structure every time. Instead of waxing into chaos and clutter and late nights and pancake dinners, perhaps I can wax into binge-writing and early mornings and healthy movement and regular meal times. Waxing within a structure.
I am thinking too much right now and I am losing it. I can feel it. My mind is taking over. The analyzer. The one that needs to know and make sure it makes sense before doing anything with it. There is a time and place for him, but often the Thinker becomes the silencer because he is trying so hard all the fucking time. And I don’t know why I think of it as a he, and I wonder if the natural tendency to think of that side as a he and the other artistic and free side as a she means that the masculine / feminine thing is actually something we really feel or if I am just programmed this way as a result of society and culture and history.
At any rate, that is how I see it. The Thinker, masculine, rigid.
And I see the other side that is more free as the feminine and the feeler. She. The part of me who wants to feel with her fingers each strand of the wild mane dancing on the back of a galloping horse in the summer dusk of a desert sky, knowing the stars above are connected to heart within, and that everything really is okay.
I can say so much more, but if I try, I will lose others I also want to say.
And just after I wrote that last sentence, a nice man came to my door with kind face and he reminded me he had been here a year ago and since that time he had earned a bunch of points and gotten back custody of his kids and that he was trying to earn more points by selling magazines.
And since I wrote that last sentence, I have already googled more about these types of programs because I want to know how they work and what this is all about, and I should have asked him so many more questions but I was caught off guard with my hair in a pile and no makeup and in the middle of writing and not expecting visitors.
And now I have so many other things I must say about that experience, and it’s like every single moment in this waking life is so packed full of ripe, bursting flavor. Each taste I want to savor and enjoy, yet I also have this mysterious need to piece it apart and get to the root of it. To the basic substance. To know what it is made of.
And I can’t quite possibly do this with every single experience that comes to my door (figuratively and literally). But I try, still, and am left with jagged writing and stuttered thoughts and doors so open they feel closed. And nothing comes.
I start to get anxious. I need to get something out. Something that feels right. But it never does.
And now I am reminded and brought back to the very thing that started this whole computer session. Seth Godin. Of all his words, these are probably the ones I feel most deeply.
“While waiting for perfect… You’ve permitted magical to walk on by. Not to mention good enough, amazing and wonderful. Waiting for the thing that cannot be improved (and cannot be criticized) keeps us from beginning. Merely begin.”
I found it screen-shotted on my desktop. I don’t remember doing it, and I hadn’t remembered the words until I opened the file wondering what it was. Quite a nice surprise that felt fortune cookie-ish, so I set it as my desktop.
There are so many routes to choose, and they ALL feel right. Lately I am very aware of the fact that I cannot possibly choose them all, nor even most, and as my time left on earth starts to take on more significance than it did in my twenties, I am more than ever looking at my options under scrutiny. We can DO ANYTHING!!! and we can do ANYthing??!
I can’t even imagine what these little teenie boppers are going to be like. My brother is thirteen and it’s like a sub-cultural study to be in his presence. The phones and the apps and the music and the photos and capturing and sharing and oh my gosh is this what it feels like to get older? To see the youth, because you’re no longer really in it anymore…
There are so many possibilities and so many ideas and so many options, but in order to experience any of them, we need to do at least one of them.
Do. Anything. Something.