Still Crazy…

Keeping a journal, even a sporadic one, as I do, is humbling. I look at past entries every now and again, read my brave declarations and promises to myself. The promises continue to be unfulfilled. Time is getting short. I’m tempted to say I have wasted the last couple years allowing myself to become domesticated. Let’s say I’ve spent the last couple years allowing myself to become domesticated. Whether it’s been a waste or not isn’t worth pursuing. Mostly, I’ve learned to be more disciplined; well, about certain things anyway, mostly my personal grooming and clutter-filled habits; this thanks to my manager at work, who is a clean-desk man. I became a minimalist the day he threatened to send me home because I was wearing leopard tights (albeit with a black tunic top). Too avant-garde, he said. We work for a financial institution; up till now my work has been in alternative journalism and graphic design, both fields where a certain amount of sartorial rebellion was not only overlooked, it was encouraged. Anyway, I threw away the tights and my scarlet shoes and bought three black blazers, a collection of no-iron shirts, and some grandma heels. Now I actually like my wardrobe; it certainly does not require the expenditure of any creative energy. I’ve learned to manage my mouth, too, and curb my cursing and shouting. The only trouble is, now I feel like a drone; my interior world has grown as colorless and un-expressive as my outer. What I want to say in this blog post is the same thing I said four years ago in my last one: I need to cut back on my web-surfing and commit to writing every day. So I will and I do, driven by the realization that when my new women’s group met today to discuss the nurturing of dreams, every one had a seed they were excited to grow. What I wanted to talk about was how to suck it up at work without internalizing. Sad, but actually I did get some excellent advice, chiefly to think of it as blowing off rather than sucking up, for the sake of my health. I am going to do that, and look forward to my digestive issues improving!

Subject Matter

Me! It’s all I know. Actually, it’s an exaggeration to say that I know myself. But it’s someplace to start… I have experienced spontaneous bursts of self-expression throughout my life, but mostly I shut myself down. Once in a twisted cry for recognition I put my writing on the curb in front of the apartment where I was trying to make a life as a single mom. I equated being an adequate parent with sacrificing myself. It didn’t work.

 

Finding my Voice?

Striving to find a voice at my age! It’s a little discouraging to realize I never had one. And exhilarating that it’s not too late, that “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” (George Eliot, though some would argue this.) I’m making a practice of writing every day; surely I’ve been told often enough throughout my life writing is what I should do. And it’s in my Irish blood. Still, my ageist inner voice denigrates it, makes comparisons to late-in-life sports cars and tap dancing lessons. And whether I view it as a desperate impulse, a last attempt at fulfillment or a step forward in an evolutionary process that will continue beyond this old age, I might as well do it. Because, what’s the difference? I need a project and I’ve decided to make it finding my voice.

In My Pajamas

I’m 73 and i feel like Holden Caulfield. Observing the world, abashed and apart and dismayed and often disgusted by what I see. Even if I am striving to be non-judgmental! In fact, this striving is what I think about almost all the time. It slaps right up against  judgmental thoughts that flood my brain endlessly. Observing these judgments dispassionately is the key to letting go of them, I’m told by various meditation teachers, self-help authors and gurus. And don’t judge the judgments! Think of them as comments. So I observe the comments, exasperated by how many of them there are. It’s shocking. They’re even worse than my external comments, which once led a co-worker to describe me as “acid rain.” It was and after thirty years still is very painful to acknowledge his poetic precision. I am psychologically astute, but to my sorrow, only with respect to the bad stuff. It took me a long time to realize that there’s more than bad stuff, that I could apply my insight to finding the good. I thought my negative views were unusually clear-sighted. Now I am attempting real transparency, to describe what I see without inserting myself at all, without attributing motives or interpreting. When I lived at the beach and was experiencing a little spiritual growth spurt i attempted to study the Course in Miracles, but gave up after when first lesson: to look at the leg of a table and acknowledge it was without meaning. I tried to get my head around that but couldn’t. “Of course it’s without meaning,” I thought disgustedly, “I never said it had meaning.” Now all these years later I begin to glimmer that I am assigning meaning to everything I see, and my meanings are meaningless…