Nothing feels terribly urgent. I sat on a hill yesterday and realized anew that just sitting and being calmly quiet, thinking about things that make me happy to think about, feels as if it might do some work in the world.
It’s odd that I forget that, that I get caught up in feeling like I have to do this and I have to do that and oh woe is me…that I forget that everything will likely work out just fine so long as I keep moving forward and that, really, things are quite fine already. It also helps to remember that I mostly love what I am doing, that it makes me happy or at the very least seems fascinating most of the time.
e.g. the way that the sound of a radio and static broke through for me to hear as I wondered if maybe I’d taken it a little too far that time.
I was feeling good on Tuesday, driving home from work and stealing glances at the sky, listening for whatever song might come on next. I noticed that the clouds were of the near-perfect body with which to make shapes, singular and drifting, dense in their edges, yet overlaid with diaphanous layers.
I saw something that looked to me to be a dragon.
As I drove past the Ag Center and saw a woman riding a horse, I thought about just how terrifically interesting my drive home from work is, slightly studying the clouds above the road in front of me and thinking about the possibility of a world suddenly realizing, thinking about messages and messagers and an Earth that is hard at work in the ditches and woods, all out in the open with the wind and the light.
It is true that sometimes I inhabit a different worldview. However, it’s a good one. I have thought a lot about the difference that might be made by my experiencing so-called madness in ways that are – at this point – mostly positive. When I think about spies, I think about how much they love me and how they are probably secretly rooting me on.
Towards what, you may ask?
Well, I don’t know. I do know that if I were spying on me, I’d appreciate my earnestness.
Yes, I really am that daft.
The other night I was briefly on facebook and mistakenly made a comment about fetal damage by pharmaceuticals and abortion rights and some fellow launched into a rant that ultimately ended with a wish that I would burn in hell. It was quite ugly, but I didn’t really care much about it because I was so fascinated by the degrees by which I am completely and utterly disconnected from most people’s thinking. People have a lot of weird ideas.
I guess the times that my version of madness has been troubling have been the times that I have been frightened of everyday people and the weird ideas they get. I mean, someone could get the idea that I’m some sort of antichrist, which is absurd for so many reasons, but totally possible.
People get terrible ideas all the time.
There have been occasions upon which casual acquaintances – during times of duress and apparently profound confusion about what’s what and who’s who – have made statements that suggest 1) I’m affiliated with Lucifer because I said, “I am lucky.” and the more alarming 2) that they were intended to destroy me.
…and these are people that actually somewhat knew me, much less random internet people, who are full of all sorts of strange and ill-informed ideas.
Maybe blogging is a bad idea? Probably.
On Thursday, I was checking out a friend of mine’s wellness map as part of some work that I am doing and I saw that under the heading “Extreme Early Warning Signs” the state of “believing that my life is a story” was listed prominently.
“Huh,” I thought, “I feel like my life is a story all the time and have for years. Is that weird?”
Yeah, I guess it is.
As I thought about, there was a big and frustrated sadness up inside my ribs, thinking about what it must be like to just live, to just have one’s life be one’s life and to not question it, to not analyze it, and to not be always looking at it from the outside in.
I wondered what it’d be like to look in the mirror and to not have to pause a minute at over how strange it is to be, as a song lyric phrases, “anything at all.”
I went into the copy room.
“Shouldn’t someone, like, help me with this?”
I think back a lot to that time that my mother unexpectedly said, “You’ll probably miss them when they’re gone,” referring to the clouds. This was back when I was seeing God in everything, which I still can, albeit in a logical will of perception sort of way. It is harder to find the shapes, because I don’t look long enough.
There is also, as I have noted here, a particular feeling that comes about with the clouds and it is a feeling like something I could only call God is in me and I don’t lose myself in that feeling for very long these days. I pull it back it, sink it back into the ground, gather it up and carry it around, busy it with sweeping the floor and keeping up with the messages, smiling quietly, still living the story, but living my life…which brings me back to what I might choose if there were someone who could make me forget my life before and to cease consideration of my life hereafter, if someone could make my life not feel like a story, especially not one that is connected by the thinnest golden threads to so many other stories, all of which I must endlessly consider as I forge my own part.
I was not consciously aware that I thought of my life as a story, though in retrospect I now realize that I’d been storied for a long time. It wasn’t until I was in the kitchen crying and I knew that I was grieving who I was, who I had been, and in that moment, I fiercely loved my little story.
Funny, when I sat down to write this, I felt completely dull and very normal, with children asleep and a to-do list for the evening, the dog washed at 9:00pm and the table wiped clean.
I know that nothing has changed.
Everything that was in my head and heart is still as there as it ever was.
I just haven’t been letting it out lately.
I don’t know if I would choose to have a life that didn’t feel like a story. I like my life as a story.
I was just thinking about writing last night! Inkie continues to do really well. He’s not a fuzzy after all, but has a wonderful smooth coat.
His wry neck seems to have abated a bit, possibly with him getting bigger and older. We try to let him “exercise” and he enjoys the running around the living room. His favorite thing is still parsley and he likes being petted as he eats. He seems to enjoys being sung to, and his name is perfect for making up songs.
I think we need to trim his nails, as they have gotten quite long and scratchy. I’m a little nervous about it.
“tried and true format: Tell them what you’re going to tell them. Tell them. Tell them what you told them.” <- see, this is the sort of thing I need to learn!
Sorry for the email flurry, but I really appreciate your feedback and am excited about the potential of this process and endeavor.
Be in touch at leisure and we’ll get something sent out soon. I’d rather it be from more than just me, or from someone other than me. I want to participate and make this happen, but I’d rather it be a shared effort/interest from the outset.
That being said, goodnight!