Here I am, as I said I would be. I had so many ideas throughout the day of what I wanted to write about, and of course now they've more or less scattered.
A close friend and I were discussing what qualities differentiate people we connect with from those acquaintances with whom we remain on the "surface" -- superficial in its truest sense, not implying materialism. We came up with this: it's difficult to really, deeply connect with people who are not
passionate about something. Anything. Whether it's world events or literature, a dog, a child, gun control, music, our friendships -- the point is that one's life becomes exponentially richer and fuller when it's infused with passion.
I think my biggest passion -- other than my loved ones -- is self-betterment. I got off to a late start figuring myself out, but after an extraordinarily rocky beginning to this new year, I recognize that I've made great strides in that department. It's hard to do everything we want to do, let alone the things we
should do: work, work out, eat well, recycle, volunteer, relax, spend time with family and friends, cultivate hobbies and interests, keep up with current events, be organized, be nice, be happy ... but it's doable. As we all know I am a great procrastinator, and this period of intense and unexpected self-reflection has made me realize that one of the things I've dawdled on the longest is viewing myself as a fully functional human being. It's easier to be "the crazy one". It's a self-generating excuse to sleep in, for one, and to be distracted. But I am not crazy. Scatterbrained, disorganized, emotional -- and sane.
It would be easy to tell myself that I've "wasted" time -- years and years -- not having realized this. But I refuse to have regrets, only learning experiences and fodder for my creative mind.
We're doing The Artist's Way -- Neil, me, Michael, and my mom. If you've never explored it, do. It's a book and a self-taught class on living a creative life, which will, hopefully open up the channels for my (our) writing. The two primary elements are the morning pages and the artist's date -- the first being three pages daily of automatic writing first thing in the morning (which is, of course, a relative term), a practice meant to clear out the cobwebs and clarify our thoughts. Three pages handwritten, which Mags and I estimated to be about 1 1/2 typed, or roughly 400 words. Does that make sense? I'm bad with the word-count thing.
The artist's date is two hours, weekly, of creative ... cultivation, for lack of a different word. Alone. A trip to an art gallery, a movie, sitting in a garden -- anything. I'll know more when I actually read the chapter.
Here's a poem I love, that* was introduced to me by a dear friend. It's by Mary Oliver:
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your bodylove what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
*Technically that should be "which", but I'm allowing myself creative liberty in this forum.
