musings of a melancholic: solitude

Showing posts with label solitude. Show all posts

We really are a cup-and-saucer kind of people in this abode. As I stood before the great window overlooking the neighborhood, I wondered what a passerby might think of me sipping in such a manner. Would the gesture seem odd? I turned to my studious husband working on a final research paper and noticed his even more dainty tea cup. How did this happen? Why do I use the saucer? As it turns out, I am terribly clumsy. The saucer was meant to catch the dribbles of tea and to hold a biscuit. I have adapted its use to coffee and a (half!) donut. And just one second ago, I grabbed the cup without the saucer and dropped coffee on my shirt. Damn it. Sidenote: Lest you think I always eat donuts, I would like to say I made a kick-ass oatmeal this morning complete with hot cinnamon apples, toasted coconut, raisins, and brown sugar.

Things have seemed soft lately, despite a rigorous social schedule. Today is the first day I've not had a social event in an entire week, which is terribly straining for my introverted self. Each activity was quite pleasurable, but it's often not until I am settled back into this solitary place that I realize how much I needed it.

As the baby despot sleeps on her throne, I ponder the new momentum in my life. Yesterday's work was supremely productive! As I walked home from a writing lunch with a happy belly full of wine and Caesar salad, I noted how good it felt to be mentally exhausted again, to pour out thought after thought, inane and important, banal and profound onto the welcoming pages of my journal.

There really is nothing like the marriage of your passion and your work.

And speaking of passion, my mind has been swirling with brave thoughts of art. I am reworking definitions for myself and what it means to be a 'writer' and am uncovering a lot of fear preventing me from taking myself more seriously and also realizing how much energy exists inside of me toward this work. It's easy to write, it's easy to be around other writers. Taking this small, informal workshop has breathed new life into my craft unlike any I expected. It assigns me weekly readings (this week's was phenomenal!) and several timed free-writes from prompts. Additionally, the teacher will accept voluntary submission of rough drafts of essays, and I am still working on my subject to see if I could indeed do this. Since the topic is writing through inner change, I have several I could delve into (conversion to agnostic/atheism, my conversion to feminism, or the change of motherhood). All seems like too much to bite and all very confusing!

I am wondering as well...

Is art art if it remains unshared?
I am any less an artist than my dear +Umber or +Jillian because I don't have shows or sell my work or spend as much time on it? I believe they would certainly give a resounding NO, to legitimize me...but there is still something to putting your livelihood on the line. There is a difference, but I am trying to unpack it truthfully (do I use my inability to do what they do as an excuse to keep from taking risks for what it is I do?)
Do I have to embrace the 'arty' lifestyle and mimic other's creative process and reside in their work-space or can I TRULY make it my very own? (Can I be more drawn to people than nature? Can I take less than amazing photos and still hare them? Can I be Type-A and highly-planned and crass? Can I prefer the city to the country? Can I own more books than plants? Can I love Twinkies instead of kale? Can I wear PJs all day instead of boots and skirts? Can I have small humans instead of large canines?) Sidenote: this list not meant as any ridicule of their lifestyle, but just a comparison of how I have seen two of my intimates live as artists.
Why do I write? What is my truest truth that I need to extract?
What if I hurt others by writing that truest truth?
Can I still write every day, delve into pieces and pour myself out on paper and still consider myself a writer even if I never publish a single thing?
If I do want the notoriety and publication, can I have them or am I too scared?

Just me, my cup-and-saucer, these quiet few minutes, the sound of the wind-chimes, the steady type of my husband's fingers, and the freedom of unanswered questions.

[Journal Writings]

Feb 14, 2013
12:33 p.m.

I'm sitting here at Zoka, alone and sipping a steamy Americano. I ordered it 'for here.' I don't remember the last time I ordered something to stay.

I woke this morning anxious, or perhaps excited? It's true that the highly-anxious personality often has a hard time distinguishing anxiety from excitement, since they are essentially the same physiological sensation. I nearly cancelled my plans for this moment. There has been a lot invested in this moment, a personal journey of epic proportions to my small existence. I've hired my friend Niki to watch Bowie for several hours a month, and not so I could go to an appointment or do anything required of me. I hired her entirely to get away from being a Mom for a small while.

First, there is the initial idea that it would be nice to run errands alone again, to perhaps go on a photograph walk or visit the sea shore. There is the emotional struggle of wondering how deserving I really am of those hours. Working through that took a few weeks.

Second, there's the progress of thinking a thought to vocalizing a thought. There's telling Joel and then working through his thoughts (always supportive) but the logistics, the money, the implications.

Third, there's the finding of someone you trust. Or should I hire a professional?

Fourth: There's the agreement of scheduling with this person and the waiting for the days to arrive.

Then it's time. Just another day for Bowie, but one I've been planning for nigh on 6 weeks, and one I wanted to back out of at least 15 times. There's the self-doubt, the "I'm fine today; I don't really need this."

But here I am at Zoka, feeling so impossibly fulfilled that I'm sure to be leaking light! I can suddenly feel the goodwill and love of people; I can see atoms connected and agreeing on origin and meaning. I realize that unless I had a moment to sit quietly in uninterrupted thought to ponder this feeling I would have missed out on this new phrase I keep hearing from inside of me:

I love being Bowie's mother.

The truth is, I've had small moments of this revelation this week while hanging out with her, stroking her head of new hair, kissing her soft neck. But I don't think I allowed it a full confession. And I may never have had - if I'd not given the thought the space and solitude to emerge.

All this makes me wonder how many revelations, meditations, and epiphanies are missed because we do not pursue solitude or make room for contemplation. I needed to step back from Bowie to really see her. And I have to say, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything so beautiful.

I've often felt more in love with Joel when I'm thinking of him from afar or praising him to others. The distance creates clarity. And I can clearly see this love that permeates my life, connects me to my kin.

So I hired Niki. There's a lot I want to do with that time. I want to shop, take pictures, exercise, meet Joel for lunch...but today it just made sense to write. I just wanted to reflect on this most beautiful fulfillment given to me in a small coffee shop not 200 feet from Bowie and Niki playing in my house. I want to let this moment pervade my mind, to let this happiness truly happen to me. To not criticize it or truncate it with the knowledge that it too will pass.

- Just Let Good Happen

And for this girl who sees the bleak absurdity of existence more readily than not, to be granted this fresh perspective is nothing short of a sappy Valentine's gift of obnoxious proportions from the cosmos.

Goin' courtin' with the Universe, y'all.

I just feel like on this the day of celebrating affection and connection, that sometimes the very best way to love your life is to take a break from it. Even if you have to pay someone to do it.

I've been saying it too often lately, but this week has felt like seven generations of myself have passed through this tired brain and body. It has made tonight's goodness even good-er. I enter my house in solitary reflection as I used to enter St. Mark's cathedral - in awe of the sacred, anticipating a message from the cosmos, eager for the communion of wine. I turn on Debussy, I pre-heat the oven. Each movement feels important; turning on a bedroom light becomes a whispered prayer as in vigilant lighting of a candle for your soul. The unintentional intentionality of cooking, pouring, cheersing friends in solo whispers. I am happy to feel happy to be alive.

I am buoyed by you this week, your gentle eyes reading without judgement, your helpful email, your quiet ache for me, your determination to write me a letter, your driving to visit me, your making me laugh, your helping me see, your meeting me for a glass of wine, your commitment to refrain from flattery and love me true.

It is pure.

There are weeks when ~~I just don't have much to say~~ ignoring all the noise in my head is the only way to relax. This isn't my usual modus operandi; instead, I usually engage that voice by journaling and reading and much contemplative quiet time (man, I lead a really nice life). However, my biggest struggle this week has been not coming down too hard on myself for spending my evenings wrapped up in the boob-tube.

It's that continued internal struggle:

What I want to do versus what I think I SHOULD do.

I admit.

The should usually loses.

So when I was presented with a night all to myself, I had many ambitious lists - organize my desk, walk around the lake, call my girlfriend. I like having ideas and plans for those days when what I want to do eludes me. However, I have had to learn to remain flexible with these lists - knowing that my mood, as much as it gets discredited in modern society for its illogical influence on our daily lives, is every bit a part of my soul and psyche as my will and desires are.

SO I did whatever I wanted.

It's funny - it wasn't much different from other days this week, but the difference was a nuanced self-judgement of my activities. Instead of being ashamed that I sat in front of the TV, I decided to just enjoy it. What's the point of relaxing if you spend the entire time in angst that you should be doing something else? Just DO SOMETHING ELSE. I'm really working on this kind of living-in-the-moment.

My mantra:

Brining intentional awareness to each activity will give it life. Do nothing out of blind habit or rigid self-definition. With the precious little amount of leisure time the universe grants, do what you want, when you want.

This isn't a recipe for goal-attainment, obviously. Many of you need more more defined parameters to motivate yourself towards activities you want for yourself, but in Candace-land, self-discipline is a dirty, dirty word. Instead, I believe using my desires is a better way to get to my goals. I WANT to be healthy - I WANT to move, to drink less, to write more. Great. But I also WANT macaroni and cheese for every meal, want to drink a bottle a wine, and want to be mindlessly entertained for hours and hours. Granted, I will probably never be in great shape or arrive at any grandiose achievements, but I am okay with that.

Instead, my goal is to love my life.

To never, ever suffer through the shoulds.

All of this to say, I had an evening alone, and this is what I made of it: