“When we let ourselves hang out in the space of not-knowing, there is enormous potential, and life could unfold in innumerable ways.” Kaira Jewel Lingo,
I’ve been reading instead of writing during my precious early morning time. I’ve been backing off, taking a vacation, opting out of the busy key-punching for a while. Except this, of course.
Sometimes, like right now, my mind is muddled. I keep writing stuff and revising, but why? I don’t know what I want to do next, what’s best for me to do, or if what I’ve been doing is worthy (for what? in the eyes of whom?). I imagine my writing friends staying always focused, getting up in the morning and going about their work with no doubt of what they hope to do. That’s only my illusion, of course. I know perfectly well that confusion is necessary. I don’t know why, but it seems to be true.
A muddled mind may be useful. Think of it as a paragraph shift, maybe a new page. You know how that feels, if you’re a writer. Within the feeling is something obscure, not yet formed. You can wait, and that’s good. But if you wait with specific expectations, that’s not really waiting. That kind of waiting is only restlessly pushing forward with your mind, not being at the growth tip of where you are. The necessary waiting is like waiting for Godot. It feels a bit like being stuck in the doctor’s waiting room with a few ancient magazines (imagine you left your phone at home). As time passes, you give up on impatience. You read every word, you study the painting on the wall, you notice a spot on the carpet, because you have nothing else to do. God knows how long it will be.
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We got home from the lake a week ago. The transition is a bit disconcerting. At the lake I feel like Robinson Crusoe, true or not. Here is a feeling of a gentle enclosure, a being-taken-care-of. A central administration that’s looking after the things that if I were at the lake I’d have to take care of myself. Meals, cleaning, changing the bed, taking out the trash. The latter is a big deal at the lake. I have to gather up the heavy bag, put it in the wheelbarrow before seven in the morning, and pull it up the hill to the road. By now it’s dark at seven, especially under the trees. I use my phone flashlight to point the way. Here, I take the trash a few feet down the hall.
Notice the two babies!
Here there are classes I can attend. And I lead a meditation group twice a week. Plus, we’re both catching up with doctors’ appointments. I feel both annoyed and supported by getting back to responsibilities. The sight of the lake as the sun comes up can remain stored in me until next year.
You could say it’s the difference between those who choose to stay in their own homes as they age and those of us who’ve chosen to turn over a portion of our lives to an intentional community. I’m happy here. I’ve always felt annoyed by the intrusion of the very things I’m rid of now! Cooking—as much pride as I get by occasionally, let’s say, making spanakopita, I don’t like having to think of what to cook every day. I have never liked it, but I’ve been good and faithful cook, doing what was required of me. Cleaning. What a nuisance, although I love to see things clean. I’ve been a good and faithful housekeeper.
Here's the thing. My mind is always drifting elsewhere. Some people put their hearts into cooking. I appreciate them so much! I love good food. But my mind has always been a drifter. I have had so many years of meditation, which has profoundly influenced my ability to pay attention. This doesn’t mean I no longer drift—it means I see the drifting clearly. I know I’m doing it. It must serve some purpose. The boundary between my dream-mind and my waking-mind is very thin.
I wrote a diary about the transition to living here, in a retirement community. I’ve done nothing toward publishing it because I have these other books to look after first. I’m wondering, when I go back and read it, what I may want to change, after two years.
Something else. There’s a stack of games at the cottage. I don’t like games much. I stare into space while others are trying to win. I don’t care about winning. I didn’t like taking piano lessons, either. It’s the forced attention that was annoying to me. I loved taking ballet. There’s a forced attention, but it’s accompanied by and driven by the movement of the body. All connected. I can analyze myself—heaven knows I had enough therapy in my past—to see why and how. I had plenty of need for escape as a child. But here I am, paying intense attention to the words on the page. I’m not all floaty. I know what I’m doing. And I know I have only a certain number of years left. I’d like to successfully and happily use myself up.