Before you get all excited, no major insights here. Keep on moving along.
They say that God is outside time and space, able thusly to know the future as well as find the past really still present. It seems a bit confusing, and frankly I don’t think that I would like to wake in the morning and have to contend with keeping all that stuff separate.
Time, to humans, is a commodity. We all complain that we never have enough of it, and we are obsessed enough about it to run our lives by it. I guess our cave living fore bearers did so in a manner of speaking, since they were guided by the light to work in the day, and sleep in the dark. In our home, the Contrarian can obsess about whether all the clocks are in sync.
I have a watch, and I wear it on Sunday. I don’t know exactly why, since I intend to do the same things regardless of the time, but still, it is somehow comforting. And this from a person who happily put aside wristwatches upon my “retirement.”
Being a lazy person, I don’t utilize time well, which may be why I’m always complaining that I don’t have enough of it. I squander it, although that seems wrong, since time, by last check, tends to have a mind of its own, and to tick along regardless of whether I need more or not.
So, as this glorious spring unfolds (making up for two miserable weather years here in Iowa), I’m searching (where?) for time to get outdoors and pick up trash, prepare flower beds, and then plant. I’m also trying to not lose (to what?) all this 80+ warmth. I sat out last evening to read and then meditate and it’s not even mid April yet!
The mind is curious, but you already know that. Every time I read about a brain study, I am forced to admit, that like it or not, I’m not much in control here. My mysterious brain directs things all on its own much of the time, though I think I’m actually making the decisions.
So I have no idea really where comes the notion that periodically, I must alter my daily routines to do “more” of something or other. That something or other might be knit or crochet, or read or meditate, or cook, or garden. Even, (yech!) exercise more. I feel this awakening, rebirth kinda changy thing (channelling the Ms. Moosolini again!). More than just a need to reorganize to accomplish some goal.
No, its more like rebirth pangs of newness that I must seek and employ. To feel relevant? To feel fresh and energized? Do you know what I mean?
I sternly admonish my “self” or selves as the case may be (Sometimes I’m not sure how many inhabit the insides of my skull. No need to worry, I don’t lose major blocks of time–no multiples in me–though I have plenty of traumatic childhood drama to expose some day when I’m brave enough!) Anyway, I admonish myself regularly to get off this damned computer and stop wasting away my life.
So I wonder, am I? Wasting my life away I mean? I don’t know. I can tell when I’m not dealing front on with issues–I retreat to the land of mind-numbing game playing. And I’m bored doing it but can think of no better thing to do. I’m pulling out of that now, segregating chunks of time, and devoting them to outdoor pursuits, and more reading.
I wonder too, have I created a monster that now controls me? That’s a whole ‘nother level of awkward thinking. I’ve not been shy about telling people I write a blog–both at church and among classmates of old. So people who actually know me are reading me, at least now and again, and I wonder–just how much that affects what I write.
I was contemplating writing about my relationship with Mother, and then shied away, thinking, “I don’t really want people who actually know me to, well, know ’bout all that. Or do I? Or should I care? As to kids I went to school with? Heck most I’ve not physically seen since 1968–so why should I care? As to others? More difficult.
A reader writes to me and thanks me profusely for what I have written about one day. And I am gratified and humbly unworthy of such praise. Yet, such a statement induces a feeling of confidence and better yet, it upholds me in my determination to be honest. Honest about my life and my feelings. Warty as they some times are.
I hate to sound all Oprah and all, but I truly hope that in my most ashamed moments, someone can see themselves, and realize they aren’t perhaps so bad after all. At least they can know that others have failed as badly, or worse.
Sure, a blog can be all kinds of self-promoting crap. But it can also be real and honest. I’ve lost my safety in anonymity I guess, but I have not lost the strength I get from readers and frankly from my God, who beams when I am ruthlessly honest about myself.
If I were God, oh Lord, what a mess we would be in. Be glad that I am not. I’d do something about weather first of all. And then. . . .
Tomorrow, I think I’ll tell you about Mother.
Existential Ennui 