slipping. thinking. drowning into a whole lot of wondering about everything.
i could read some books to get theories and ideas, or i could drown out the endless thoughts with t.v.
or i could do exactly what i am doing: writing and listening to mellow, emotional tunes by everyone from red house painters, to radiohead, to derek webb to yo la tengo.
there are others in my same boat. probably more than we'd all like to admit. i know it because i've read their longings and manifestos on what they think, or feel or hypothesize. and the thing is, they don't know either. and the second they think they do, they change. it's all back to that Human Condition.
i've been taking st. john's wort, which has never been a necessary alias for my brain. i am ok with it, especially if it helps the anxiety and melancholy that seem to be becoming ever heavier.
there's been a lot dug up in the past couple months. there have been a lot of very good realizations about my character and relationships. but that ever-so-soft simmer of emotions and feelings that have remained in the warm waters of denial have begun to bubble over in the boiling waters of reality.
i have bitterness and resentment and an uncanny amount of perfectionism that weighs me down every single day. it eats away, literally. it is impossible for me to be still. i hate it. really, i hate it.
it is impossible to enjoy a drama free existence. i realized this as i lay in my daughter's warm bed, in our perfect house, with the intoxicating scent of banana bread baking in the oven and a carefree night to do nothing ahead. i want, i crave excitement, movement, perpetual motion...even if it's negative. i don't have to sit in my shit.
i know i know....all of this is obvious and been hashed over a million times. i have just been in denial about being one of "those" people. i teach yoga for goodness sakes! i am looked at by students as some master of space, time and body awareness, fully capable of being conscious. i am not.
when i am alone, quiet, without immediate agenda, i am reminded of all the things i want to do, but am too scared to do. things like write and play songs, be in a band, be a writer, make photo albums, meditate and garden. but i don't.
the reality, that bubbling, oozing, scalding hot reality, is that i blame others, trying to make them the reason i feel incomplete. i find the slightest imperfections and mold them into fantastic stories in my mind, that make them the criminal and me the victim. classic narcissistic tendencies. yeah, i really love admitting that.
i have this husband who does all the gracious, loving, affectionate husbandly things, and yet, i am bored. when things are good, i am mad. i am sure there are all kinds of theories about that, but i'm no psychologist. somehow, he still loves me.
and there it is...love. that elusive thing that keeps us all going. the one thing that matters, that binds us together like sticky peanut butter and sweet jelly into one big, deliciously messy human sandwich.
maybe scientists can theorize away at how evolution works, or creationists can rationalize the great mystery of life. maybe they're both right. maybe not. but no amount of study or experimenting can teach us how or why love exists. it's just in there, deep in side, beating ever more the older we get.
i can find no other reason for love than the supernatural. i can find no better representation than Jesus.
when i smile, my organs feel an unexplainable energy that must make a shape like a smiling crescent moon.
writing always helps.