Archives for category: Metaphors

I’m sipping my morning coffee later than usual, after sleeping in a bit, unexpectedly. It’s too hot to drink. I’m okay sipping it carefully, “testing it” for future, safer, drinking. There’s no rush. The sun is up, the morning is unfolding into a new day. I feel rested… and eager. It’s Thursday! (Date Night) Magical.

Just a cup of coffee and some lens flare; we bring the whimsy, the poetry, the music. Magic moments are created by our perception, and acceptance.

Just a cup of coffee and some lens flare; I bring the whimsy, the poetry, the music. the joie de vivre. 

When I first met my traveling partner, I already understood my role in making the magic of things like Thanksgiving and Christmas, and after many years, I still happily and enthusiastically throw myself into the whimsy and fun of making that magic happen. I didn’t recognize, strangely enough, how much went into the magic of love and loving, and still held onto expectations that somehow it just happens. I over-invested pretty heavily in peace-keeping endeavors any time there was any hint of conflict or difference, fearfully driven by old baggage, chaos, and damage. I was generous, hospitable, and kind (if rather cluelessly so), but those behaviors were interspersed with some frightful (sometimes symptomatic, sometimes just nastiness born of having been permitted to continue with bullshit) bad behavior. Chaos. Volatility. Tantrums. I’m a fucking adult. It had to be hard for people loving me. Hell, it was hard; I was there.

Today, I make magic. Small magic, but nonetheless, magic. I’ll tidy up, and make a point to do some things I know matter more to my partner than they do to me, just because they do matter to him. I’ll put extra time and care into how I feel, myself, and how I look – it is ‘date night’, after all. 🙂 I’ll make a quick trip to the store for a handful of things I just don’t keep in the house, generally, that I know he very much enjoys, so those things are here for him, and I’ll double-check for pantry and medicine cabinet items he might need, and ensure I haven’t run low. All very practical stuff. I’ve learned some excellent practices for nurturing love’s logistical needs.

I still have so much to learn about love! There’s magic in intimacy, in connection, in touch… those are trickier, and rely on verbs with real nuance, requiring greater awareness, more sensitivity… I am regularly challenged to the limits of my current understanding of love, and still eager to take another step, love more deeply, love more intently, love with more skill… and we’re not even talking about the sex piece, yet. LOL So much to learn to love truly well.  There’s patience, and perspective, and listening deeply, and speaking gently, and making room for strong emotion, and surrender, and honoring the sacred ‘other’ that is my partner’s tender heart… So much to learn. I stay it’s a lot to learn less as a statement of frustration, and more like an eager student, opening an enormous text-book for the first time, and looking at the table of contents in awe. Every lesson is worthy. Every lesson builds on the lessons already learned, in anticipation of lessons to come. It’s big, “the book of love“, and I don’t expect to finish it cover to cover even in a lifetime.

Tears slide down my face – the weird happy/sad tears of profound joy experienced fully and also in the context of how fleeting joy must be, just to be joy. (Tears that actually become tears, because my TBI can be a major impediment to the sort of emotional regulation most people take for granted.) Then I laugh at myself – tears in the sunshine. I have this powerful love for this singular human being, without any real understanding why I feel the way I do, or whether it will outlast this fragile vessel, or even if the feelings I feel are ‘real’ – I mean, as real as this table top, or this sunny morning. We’re both so very human, dragging our own customized baggage all about everywhere we go, and sometimes sharing the load. Are the things that fill me up from the inside as real as the struggles that impinge on my joy from external sources? Maybe? Probably? Does it even matter? Maybe love is a placebo… would I suddenly stop loving if it were? (No. No, I wouldn’t…I’d probably use the powers of the mind to intensify the experience. lol) The tears don’t last – they’re more a moment of appreciation that became too visceral. 🙂

I sit smiling, sunshine spilling over my hands on the keyboard. I sip my coffee contentedly. It’s a lovely day – and a good one for love and loving. A good one for sex, too, sure, but that’s not the point – and as much as I want all that, too, I want to be clear (even with myself) that it isn’t ‘about’ sex. I conflated sex and love for much of a lifetime, and it’s hard to sort out all the baggage from that mess, but it’s a worthy project; the love matters most. Real love. Adult love. Romantic love. Sexual love. It’s just that the intimacy leads – not the other way round, that much I’ve learned. Without a foundation in intimacy, and an emotional connection (of some kind), sex seems (to me, at this point in life) repetitive, physical, distant, and somewhat peculiarly unsatisfying, however good the sex is technically, and suitable only for breeding. A bit annoying, really – I used to be good at sex. lol In my twenties I wasn’t even emotionally capable of actual intimacy, embarrassingly, obviously so, when I recall key moments when one lover or another with a deeper understanding attempted to get more from my heart that I knew to offer; I was still too broken for any of that.

I listen to love songs in the sunshine. I let the smile on my face become a slow groove that sends love-chills up my spine and butterflies to my tummy. I love Love. 🙂 I have a near infinite capacity for it (you probably do, too) – I’d happily love everyone good and decent and loving with all the infinite moments of love my heart has to offer… if only I knew how to connect deeply with each one, on their own terms (and mine), in an authentic and intimate way. I’ll keep practicing – there’s too little love in the world as it is. Practicing love more often is a goodness. Every moment we practice to treat those we love just a bit better than we did before really matters; from there we can learn to love the world. 🙂

Today is a good day to practice loving. There are verbs involved. Today is a good day to be love. I think I’ll grab some verbs…

 

I wasn’t quite an emotional wreck yesterday, and remained so through much of the afternoon. In a practical biological sense, it can be difficult to lift my mood without outside intervention, sometimes, because I live alone; the shortcut mood-lifter for me is connection, intimacy, physical contact – you know, the mammal stuff. Everyday human primate needs that want very much to be met.

In the evening, an enjoyable few minutes with friends who ‘get me’ enough to provide that feeling of connection in a few minutes of intimate conversation and some laughs had eased much of my storming about restlessly. Hugs go a long way, too. I enjoyed a quiet evening of meditation, and playing my guitar. It was pleasant enough that looking back on the day, that pleasant finish is the thing I recall first and most. That’s a win by itself.

Awake before dawn.

Between one day, and the next… night.

I woke at 3 am. I began things in the usual way; took my morning medication, opened up the apartment to cool breezes, and returned to bed. Huh. No sleep happening… Well. Damn. I roll over. Rearrange the blankets. Find a new position. Take some calming deep breaths. Nothing. No sleeping whatsoever. Shit. I get up, make coffee, and look into the pre-dawn darkness with some pointless suspicion. Why I am awake? The early morning darkness is very quiet. The world is sleeping, or seems so. Not me. I’m awake. I am even alert. I am in no way sufficiently quiet of mind or relaxed of body to return to sleep.

I walk through the apartment in the darkness, with my coffee. (Yes, that’s why the coffee cups in my house are served up not-quite-full-to-the-brim all the damned time; it’s a habit, because I do wander around with a coffee cup attached to my hand, first thing in the morning, in the darkness. lol It’s sure not ‘room for cream’. Want more coffee? Get a refill.) I like this place. The space here feels comfortable wrapped around me, even at 3 am. Even after nightmares. Even when I’m angry, moody, or frightened. The space itself holds nothing in it to cause me alarm in the wee hours, or in the darkness, or in those terrible moments when I lose myself in ancient pain; I am safe here. This place, itself, reminds me that I am okay right now, because I am. No object here, no person permitted within these walls, is of any danger to me. I crafted this safe place for my own heart, for my own safety. I quite love it here at 3 am, wandering about restlessly with my coffee. It’s strange. I woke feeling pretty out of sorts about ‘things in general’, but the soft quiet and safety here – and the rich awareness of how safe I feel – actually went a long way toward calming and soothing me. Nice. Unexpected. Nice. How often is my emotional disarray a response to some subtle feeling that “I am not safe”? Is there potential for that to occur if only my emotional safety feels threatened? Something to meditate on.

This morning isn’t bad. (“The morning feels pleasant so far”. I smile and think of my traveling partner as I correct from the negative phrasing to the positive phrasing.) I’m okay for very nearly every value of okay. I may be tired later, for having wakened so early. (It’s a small price to pay for not forcing myself to toss and turn moodily in bed for another two hours, weeping over imagined bullshit in the darkness.)

How will I start the day? I know I’d like to start it with a smile shared with my lover, a few minutes of cuddling and laughter, some sex and a great cup of coffee. Well… I’ve got the smile. I’ve got the coffee. The rest will have to wait for a morning when I also have a lover staying over. It is what it is. I could make a dismissive joke at my own expense, or gloss over this glaring downside of living alone by making a crack about giving myself a grin in the mirror after “giving myself a hand”, elsewhere. Ahem. (Yep. Still a human primate, emphasis on primate; I have trouble resisting the lewd joke.) 🙂 Instead of making light of this very human experience of ‘going without’, I’m kind to myself this morning, and make room in my heart for compassion and sympathy, and recognition that living alone isn’t always the easy choice. From the perspective of connection, intimacy, and sex, it’s actually quite the opposite of the easy choice – sometimes it sucks. A very human experience indeed.

I frown over my coffee as the sun begins to rise. For one brief instance the full measure of frustration over how many years of my choicest sexually adult years have been spent in partnerships or circumstances in which sexual privation was the rule, rather than the exception, washes over me. I contemplate what that means to me, personally, as an individual, and as a woman. I feel the feelings. I wonder for a moment what other human experiences are like, with regard to sexual economy. I laugh out loud, literally, when it hits me that I’m pushing concepts of human sexuality through ideas picked up from my Econ studies. I wonder whether there is value in doing so. I wonder how the world would measure up differently if we measure other factors of human experience to tell the tale, instead of “GDP”. What countries lead the way in intimacy? In sexual satisfaction? In connected social engagement? Which countries [genuinely] smile the most? Which country has the most contented population? Which countries citizens work most cooperatively? Which countries value emotional intelligence more highly than a college degree? Which population has the highest oxytocin levels, on average? Which countries bring the most critical thinking to government, science, medicine, without excluding emotion from the life of the mind? I sip my coffee feeling awkwardly aware of how limiting measuring human experience in dollars actually is…not just limiting; it’s a lie. There is more to human experience than commerce, so much more. Mostly everything is not at all about money – what a shame we try to monetize all that, too.

asdrf;a

As if I colored the day with a paint brush, in colors of my choosing…

This morning feels as gentle, as kind, and as comfortable emotionally as yesterday felt difficult. I find myself inclined to say I don’t understand why, but realize many small changes over time have resulted in basic good self-care practices I can now count on: listening deeply, accepting my feelings and respecting them, meditation, showing myself the same love and consideration I’d give a friend… Acceptance without attachment. Good stuff. 🙂 I smile, sip my coffee, and notice the sliver of not-quite-orange-not-quite-peach strip of dawn between the tree tops and the sky. The wee hours of night pass so quickly now… that hasn’t always been so.

I reconsider the title, with the rest of the post in mind… That “turn toward the positive” is a real thing that I do. It’s not obvious from this morning’s writing that there are verbs involved, and I could just say that (again) and you’d read the words and probably get what I’m driving at… but maybe not. It’s early. Is there value in also saying, very explicitly and clearly, that I make a willful specific deliberate choice to attempt to ‘turn toward the positive’ on mornings like this one? At 3 am, sexual frustration is something that can hit hard, and become tears or anger quite quickly (for me); it’s the sort of thing that definitely identifies sexual desire as need-related, versus something just nice to have now and then. If I had let my emotions carry the morning, raw and without support, I’d have quickly been mired in tears, and probably had a damned difficult day, based on previous experiences I’ve had living in this fragile vessel of flesh and hormones. By specifically ‘turning toward the positive’, I make choices to re-frame the experience in terms of what I have, what I can affect, and what I want/need to do verb-wise to return to a more balanced state of contentment. It doesn’t ‘solve for X’ specific to meeting the need for physical contact, intimacy, or sex, but it stops me moping around about it, in favor of positive action and experiences, generally. Perspective generally just doesn’t have any down sides… and moping isn’t “sexy”. 🙂

Tangentially, just in case you didn’t get the memo, if you’ve been holding on to an understanding of adult sexuality that suggests to you that people ‘stop being interested in sex’ at some particular age (for example, after menopause), you may be in for an unexpected shock when you get there, yourself. In my own case, my interest in, and desire for, sex has increased, rather than decreased – what has changed is that I’ve become non-negotiable on the requirement for sexual experiences to feel connected, to be intimate, and which support and nurture my sensuous nature. I’m not interested in exploitation or abuse, and I won’t compromise my sense of self-worth to get laid. The quality and characteristics of my wants and needs have changed, the magnitude of my sex drive, the power of my libido and the underlying feeling of urgency to experience sex has not. Frustrating in a world that tends to emphasize female youth as a requirement for sexual attractiveness. I’m not bitching. I’m just saying – if you think that the little old lady waiting for the bus couldn’t really have checked you out with a twinkle in her eye, you are sadly mistaken. She might even rock your world, given a chance.  😉

Beginning again.

Beginning again.

It’s a new day. I’ll begin again. I am my own cartographer, on a journey without a map – that’s okay; the map is not the world, anyway. 😀

 

…isn’t what I thought I said. I woke up with those words in my head, and the soundtrack to my dreams still playing in my head. My impression was that I was the source of the music, myself. Funny how the bits and pieces of my days fills my dreams – or at least fills in the details, and provides a bit of familiarity to the strangeness.

I spent Sunday practicing on my bass guitar, taking breaks each time my forearms began to ache again. I’d watch an episode of Cowboy Bebop, which has theme music in a genre I really enjoy, musically. Sometimes I’d fill a break with live performance videos of bands with great bass players. Saffron Monkey. The Brothers Johnson. Stanley Clarke. There are a lot of amazing bassists. It’s sometimes hard to get a good look at them; most of the focus is on the lead singer, lead guitar player, or other ‘showy’ elements of a planned performance. I enjoyed the day filled with music. I kept coming back to the Seatbelts, the source of the day’s inspiration.

I found myself generally disinclined to be part of the everyday fuss and bother of the media outrage machinery, and although I quickly skimmed the headlines for the day, early on, I quickly lost interest and set it aside. It was enough to sass the headlines to myself, for amusement. I mean, seriously? It’s not likely there is going to be ‘real’ actually new information in most articles headlining today’s news, either… shall we take a look together?

I choose a mainstream retailer of information and head to the home page. “Baton Rouge Bloodbath!” – nope, yesterday’s news right there. Moving along… “7 Things You Need to Know”… about the Republican convention? I think not. That’s not news, it’s click bait. lol If I’m Republican, I already have whatever information is presented, probably days ago. If I’m a Democrat, Independent, or other sort of voter, well, I don’t actually care about the Republican convention at all. It’s a performance piece. “Obama Pleads for Unity” – with a very sorrowful, somber picture. Well, that’s part of his job. Done. Next? “Turkey Detains 6000 People” Yeah… messy when a coup attempt fails. Things are hard over there. Will I get the best perspective from a news retailer seeking ad revenue, clicks, and viewers with their highest priority on gross margin? Probably not. Might have to wait for the history books before a broad global perspective is really available… or wait for Noam Chomsky to write about it. Civil war is ugly stuff. I know that, and for now that’s enough. “Donald Trump Floats Grotesque New Conspiracy Theory About Barack Obama” Huh. They almost got me with this one – maybe because they used more words, giving the impression this really matters, but truthfully? Does it? I mean… do I even care what some rich nut bag makes up on the fly to smear peers or competitors? Don’t I just play the game by even taking time to read the story? I move on, with a hint of a smug smile; I beat the game on this one. I go down the list of headlines, finding nothing of real substance worth my attention [at least not in the presented format, by the providing news source]. Why should I get all churned up over bullshit first thing in the morning? Seems silly.

I watch the neighborhood cats prowl the edge of the meadow. After weeks of laughing at their efforts, I saw one catch some small mammal down in the grass the other day. I stopped laughing at them. Pampered predators, surely, but quite lethal. Cats, I mean, not people. (Well… yeah. People, too. We’ve a way to go before we’re really any more civilized than our less talkative cousins.) Now I watch the cats prowling their wilderness for exotic treats with greater appreciation; they just keep at it. Most days, no cats [visible to me] catch anything at all [that I see]. That doesn’t ever seem to stop them. I smile. I have time for some bass guitar practice before I head out for the day. I think I’ll do that.

Is it ever really “too late” to begin again? If we become what we practice (and experience suggests we do), isn’t the choice to practice something that makes us somehow ‘more who we are’ a good step on the journey, regardless what other direction we may head in life?

Choose. Begin again.

Choose. Begin again.

 

…I use the words I have. I mean to say, I write more or less the same way I actually talk. It’s not always easy to read, and I’m sure cumbersome at times when simple clarity might have greater value. I’m tad surprised to have readers, and doubly surprised that many of them are my friends. It’s more than a little bit humbling, particularly when I feel those sensations of creeping self-doubt moving in to take over.

Self-doubt is a commonplace demon, honestly, and I’m pretty sure we’ve all kept company with that one at some point. Self-doubt can be so paralyzing, stopping me from painting, writing, or even connecting comfortably with others. Self-doubt backs me into a corner, and holds a fun house mirror to my face that shows me only flaws, until I question my worthiness as a human being, as an artist, as a lover, as a partner. Harsh. Self-doubt lies – using what appears to be truth. Oh, to be sure, if I can breathe through the panic, dry my tears, and take another look, self-doubt can also guide me to do more, better, and to reach for the next thing, and make it the next awesome thing about me… but… As likely as not, doubt will knock my enthusiasm into the dirt, and take away my joy for some little while, until I let go of the attachment to the target of the latest attack, and make my peace with being an imperfect being.

Begin again.

Begin again.

Self-doubt withers in the bright light of non-judgmental awareness. It’s a simple enough thing, requiring practice; I try to meet self-doubt with the certainty of change, a general attitude of acceptance, and a willingness to ‘just let it go’. If I’m not attempting to hold on to that which drives the feeling of self-doubt, it’s much less likely to undermine my feeling of worthiness overall. It works. An example? Well… It’s sort of personal, but here we go! Last night, toward the end of the evening, I felt waves of self-doubt wash over me after my traveling partner left… Maybe he’s been hinting he doesn’t want to be with me, and I don’t recognize it? (Holy shit – where did that come from??) Maybe he’s tired of me… not young enough… not thin enough… not easy enough to deal with… not rich enough… interrupt too much… too demanding (now damn it, that one’s just mean – I rarely make demands at all!!)… too something… not something enough… It cascaded one piece of internally directed criticism at a time, each seemingly built on something ‘real’… or at least real enough to drive doubt. By the end of the evening, I’d very nearly talked myself into feeling quite certain I was on the brink of breaking up with someone dear to me…without even exchanging harsh words, or enduring an uncomfortable scene. It was entirely, as far as I know, in my head. (Note that even now, many hours after this whole mess was put to rest, I still insert the ‘as far as I know’ clause in a sentence admitting I was tormenting myself with doubt? It’s weird how insidious doubt actually is; I felt it necessary to leave room for those fears and insecurities to be true…just in case they are. Doubt, you are a bitch.)

The temple of my heart is powered by my own feelings of love.

Love is a verb.

Other days, other doubts, I have been known to ‘stir the pot’ with foolishness like reaching out for reassurance, only… instead of just straight up saying “I feel insecure, and awash in self-doubt. I’m worried we’re heading for a break up, but that I can’t tell it’s coming. Can you please say something reassuring about your feelings for me?” (This would immediately put the issue at hand to rest, either with the requested reassurance, or the dreaded “Well…actually…” and the needed follow-up conversation.) That’s the fear, though, right? I don’t say that, because I’m terrified that the “Well…actually…” conversation would indeed follow. So. I often chose to wiggle into it sideways, fishing for compliments, or starting shit, sending an otherwise nice day spinning sideways into drama. This was not an effective strategy for me. I am surprisingly bad at asking the direct question, too; [lacking simplicity] I sometimes lose my way in the words, and head down the path toward drama in spite of myself. Ouch.

Doubt can be undermined so easily when I fill my awareness with the things that matter most.

Doubt can be undermined so easily when I fill my awareness with the things that matter most.

What did I do with this mess last night? It worked sufficiently well that I woke feeling comfortable in my skin, content, and fairly motivated to take on the day this morning. What I did was ‘let it go’. I practiced letting go of my attachment to the current relationship I share with my traveling partner. Sounds scary to see it text that way, but yeah, that’s what it takes [for me]. Your results may vary. I let myself really accept that ‘worst case scenario’ and made room for those feelings – the fear, the hurt, the doubt, the anger, the insecurity – and allowed myself, also, to make room for the awareness that I am okay right now… and likely would be quite okay even in the absence of this cherished relationship. Relationship comes and go, even the long ones. Ends are as commonplace as beginnings. It’s often the attachment to some tiny fragile detail that causes the cascade of painful self-doubt in the first place, but failing to notice that small detail as its own thing, I make things much bigger than they are. So, last night, I took time to appreciate small things I enjoy greatly about my relationship with my traveling partner. Distress took a back seat to the pleasure of savoring small things I greatly enjoy about ‘us’. My doubts kept chiming in with all the ways things have changed. Things we’ve lost over time. Things we didn’t/don’t have… but other people do (seem to, seem to, I remind myself – because appearances are only that).

Is love a journey or a destination? Or... is love a verb?

Is love a journey or a destination? Love… is a verb.

Before I went to bed, I’d achieved a harmonious equilibrium within my heart. Last night, I managed to avoid being pwned by self-doubt, which this morning seems an unreasonably large victory. It’s a new day. I love. I love deeply and well, and with my whole heart. As it happens, a very large portion of that love goes to my traveling partner, and I’ve got plenty more. If he did show up some evening and tell me “we’re finished as lovers, thanks for the lovely time”… I’d be okay. I’d be more than okay – I’d still be every inch and every moment this woman who I am, still very much able to love and be loved. I’ve worked to reach this place, and I won’t be so easily toppled from a comfortable sense of self… although I am aware how defining-ly dreadfully sad I would feel, for some time, to have to bear witness to the end of such a love as this one.  It seems fitting, really, to endure sadness when love ends, and the greater the love, the more terrible the sorrow.

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Read all the books, and there is still so much more to know.

Emotions are so much of what we are. I’m incredibly fortunate to feel such nuanced complex emotions. With practice, over time, I’ve become more skilled at recognizing each basic emotion, the complex combinations I am capable of feeling and what they mean, or can tell me, as well as more comfortable with emotional experiences, generally. I am learning to recognize (and accept) that some emotional experiences are more like having taken a drug and being ‘high’ on that chemical cocktail, rather than an emotional experience specifically tied to real-life events in an obvious way (the difference between inexplicable irritability, for example, versus feeling sad over something obviously hurtful, like a death or a break up). Sometimes the body and brain get together and just ‘make shit up’ on the fly. It’s okay to recognize that and let it go, as a best practice [I find]. Your results may vary. I have definitely found that insisting every stray emotion be validated and insisted upon as an urgent communique from my heart is not helpful, because some of them are just biological noise.

Cautionary reminder: I am not a neuroscientist. I am not a doctor. I don’t have a ton of relevant research experience in the field of emotion, neurology, brain chemistry, the human experience, psychology, or medicine. I’m a human, sort of muddling my own way through this human experience, very appreciative for all the science that is out there (now), and a tad overwhelmed by how rich (and complicated) this being human thing really is – and hoping to do my best for the woman in the mirror. I read a lot. I practice. I continue to practice the practices that definitely improve my experience.

I’m glad you’re here. I’m moved that you’ve read so far! I hope some moment of that is worthwhile, or at least enjoyable. We’re all in this together… I recognize that we are also each having our own experience. Maybe we’re so very different that none of this applies to you, ever. That could be a thing. 🙂 You’re human though… maybe you’ve doubted yourself, too? It seems a bit cruel to take nearly 1500 words to basically say ‘I deal with self-doubt by letting go’. It’s overly simplistic stated that way. I hope I was clearer, earlier! Is your coffee cold, now? Mine is. The sun is up, too, spilling in through the open window, warming my hands and showing their years. It’s time to begin the day for real.

This moment.

This moment. A good one to begin again. 🙂

Today is a good day to recognize how complete I am, precisely as I am, outside the context of relationships, jobs, addresses, connections, hobbies, skills, experiences… all of those things are because I am, not what I am. Today is a good day to be present in this moment, simply to enjoy being, and being who I am. Today is a good day to embrace acceptance, and let go of attachment; it won’t change any detail of reality, itself, but it definitely has potential to change my experience. 🙂

This morning I woke up feeling peculiarly disconnected and distant. I scrolled through the news, my Facebook feed, my email, all while feeling strangely uninvolved. I’ve finished my first cup of coffee. I don’t recall whether it was good, bad, or unremarkable. I swallow the last sip, but still can’t really tell much about the experience. The remaining dregs were smooth, not bitter, and tepid. Uninteresting. The apartment windows are open to the morning breeze; the forecast for the day suggests it will be a warmer one. I am only as involved as necessary to remember to cool the apartment first thing.

Am I tired? I slept well, and woke at a natural time, feeling well-rested. I’ve no cause to feel ‘hung over’ or out of sorts due to some change in medication. There’s nothing much “on my mind” at the moment, and it feels like a nice day has begun… certainly… it’s a new one. So… what’s up with the woman in the mirror, this morning? I feel as if I am a stranger to myself in some peculiar way… like commuters passing by each other on the light rail platform in the morning, on the way elsewhere; I see an impression of this person who is ‘myself’, and I continue on my way, unmoved. I have no idea what, if anything, to do about it.

One moment.

One moment.

I may see my traveling partner today. I don’t actually know. We’d made plans to connect over the weekend. Those fell through. Monday. Tuesday. We planned. Plans change. Real life happens, and gets the higher priority as an actual experience. No stress over that, but as it happens, today I lack any particular certainty that we’ll see each other. We probably will. We might not. The map is not the world. The plan is not the experience. 🙂

Yeah… I’m in a weird place today. I wonder why? I wonder if wondering about it is worthwhile? I wonder if any action is needed, or if things will sort of… just sort themselves out on their own? Change is. It’s a given that change will continue to be. I could actually quite literally simply ‘wait this out’, and change would do its thing, and at some point I will feel differently and have a different perspective. I could also act on – from? – this strange neutral place, and catalyze change in some active way. No idea whether it matters which strategy I submit to.

What do I need from me today? Some basics first, I suppose. I check the calendar for planned commitments. I look at the blank page of my task list for today, and consider what shape the day could take from that distance of minutes and hours displayed as blank lines. I hear the commuter train in the distance. I see cloud-filtered morning light bounce off blades of grass in the meadow, through the open window. I consider a second coffee, without taking action. Poor verbs, disregarded and kicked into a pile in a corner, somewhere just out of my awareness, unattended, and for now unused… Now what?

If I wait until I “sort everything out” before starting my day, it seems likely the day may never quite begin at all. Where will today take me? I’ve no idea. Perhaps if I simply begin again…