How I miss you, and how I don’t miss the need to blog.
It has been a gentle retreat to not feel pulled to do anything in regards to writing, painting, composing poetry, etc.
I often slip into creative endeavors, longing for reprieve of anguish and anxiety. Yet, my slipping undoubtedly turns into escape, a type of cloaked hiding from the world and my own state-of-being.
In exposing my thoughts through writing, I manage to simultaneously avoid everyday tasks, “duties,” responsibilities, and in a sense reality.
In creating or doing, I become overly-focused in almost all endeavors.
Finding the in between, the medium, the middle of the scale has been, and continues to be, a challenge akin to a phantom vapor that moves through me though never lingers. Inside there is a constant churning to find balance; whether I am actively consciously seeking or subconsciously hoping.
I have been afraid the last two months. Too much to comprehend, really. Stressors of life such as relationship turmoil, the prospect of moving (in which I packed most of the house, only to unpack), financial strife, and other common woes have been visiting my avenue of experience. And having been there, and still standing, I am actively catching my breath.
I have before me, to my side, the latest edition of the psychology journal. In it is my first column. My own column. And I’ve yet to open the packaging and look. I don’t know why. The white package has been sitting here, on my computer desk, for about a week.
Perhaps I am afraid of being pulled in again…to anything or anyone.
Oftentimes life is like quicksand. When I am not processing feelings of being misunderstood, judged, or misinterpreted, I am fighting this tremendous riptide. And the more I fight, the more I am made to struggle.
I don’t know how to strive without goals. I don’t know how to live without struggle. I set myself up through goals. They are this target I aim for only to find myself the very charging dart soaring through the air, becoming ungrounded in this quest to hit some distant bullseye.
I am not sure where my footing is at the moment. I am not settled; I am not certain; I am not sure. But I am okay.
And in this limbo of uncertainty the act of finding the strength to be in completion through all my emotions without clinging to a distant goal or some self-expectation is freeing.
I am letting anger surge through me. Allowing myself to explode and then re-center.
I am allowing myself to stop searching for improvement, perfection, and the ‘answers.’
I am allowing flaws to be flaws without the attachment of brilliance or giftedness, or the evaluation of the potentiality of the concept of ‘flaws.’
I just am.
I am so much like all the other people I meet: struggling and crying, cringing and contemplating, celebrating and laughing, mourning and searching.
I am this part. This singular part of a whole, no longer in need of excelling, propelling, or pushing forward.
I embrace this ebb and flow of me. All this silliness of thought.
I am accepting there is nothing I have to produce or become.
I am accepting this person I be.