I'm in it again; that slightly desperate feeling of being misplaced. The feeling is a heavy, gloomy one, like mud sucking at your boots. Appropriately I've dressed in grey today, though it doesn't fit with the impending sunshine of Africa's tropical weather. Even my happy yellow book-bag doesn't brighten the atmosphere this morning.
The gloom and wretchedness awoke with me this morning. In fact, I think it came to bed with me and stayed the night. I know what it is, too. It's that tortured place between the need for unconditional love and freedom from bonds. While on the surface it's the arena for my mixed-orientation marriage, the darkness comes from a much deeper place.
I often feel the pull to be alone. I'm no longer much of a "social person". I love my friends and spending time with them, but I have very little interest in parties and general social gatherings. They seem fake, plastic. Everyone puts on their best face and dons their manners instead of their integrity. And they drink, so eventually the integrity, or lack thereof, bleeds through the facade anyway.
But it goes beyond that. I often feel the need to disappear even from my friends and family. Not for long periods, but for a day or two at a time. I can't, of course. My house is small and my girl is still just a baby. Playing at Houdini is not a realistic option. Sometimes I feel caught, unable to escape from the situation and the people, and that's when I fall down the long hole of my own melancholly.
Even when I do let my mind imagine the possiblity of escape from the hardest parts, to not be married, to really be alone, I find no relief. As much as my psyche hollers for the release of the tension of the relationship's difficult aspects, there is as much darkness in the thought of being alone. Who will love me then? To whom would I turn when I seek comfort and reassurance? The idea of aloneness is just as dark; no relief there.
Both paths are valid, and both hard. I mused to myself on my morning stroll to work that suffering is ubiquitous. None of the above, and no path at all is without suffering, save the Noble Eightfold Path. The thought lent me a sense of humour, but didn't relieve the ache. Of course I suppose it is as important to remember that impermanenece is equally as ubiquitous: and this too shall pass, both the feeling and the situation. I wonder if that is enough to grant me the will to enjoy the moments as they are?
Sometimes when I've been away from my work for a while, or caught up in a whirlwind of a project or some administrative process (read: post-graduate registration), I find myself lost for a day or two. It's not permanent. Nothing is, I suppose. All the same I find it curious how my mind is so quick to jump the tracks after just a bit of chaos.
Concentration is a curious thing, at least to me. I tried an exercise once, of writing down everything that popped into my mind that wasn't related to the task I was working on. It was fascinating, for two reasons. First, mostly what I thought about was fears and ambitions. I wonder if that's true of everyone, or if the composition is uniquely mine? Not to say that others don't think of their fears and ambitions, but perhaps they spend more time remembering? Or thinking about social situations? Mine were fears that threaten me, and the goals I want to achieve. That's what was present.
Second, when I wrote these things down (and ticked beside them when I thought of them again) I began to find that I didn't need to think of them. If they were being graciously held by a sheet of paper and my blue ink scribble, that seemed to be satisfactory for my brain, and it was more willing to let it go. Not that I advise everyone to have a list of their fears and ambitions perched next to them permanently. But it was interesting how my brain didn't need to be a holding tank if something else could. I tell you it reaffirmed my belief in the process of journaling as a process of purification.
And it was a sort of process of purification. Unlike many other forms of cleansing the mind, it was amazingly non-violent - there was no repression of the thought (not even the impulse to do so), just the noting of it. But the permanence of the method of notation made it easier to let it go, somehow.
The great part of it all was that I was able to watch my duration of concentration increase from seven to fifteen consecutive minutes in just one day. While that may not sound impressive, when you are reviewing addresses and descriptions for Museum promotions it can be considered quite a feat.
What it most brings home, this whole process, is that concentration is something that I interrupt regularly. And the more chaotic my environment has been, the more apt my mind is to offer an interruption or two of its own. I would suggest that steadfast rituals and segregated activities could go a long way in helping, but in the end this isn't how the world functions, and so it won't be much help in "the real world".
So I go back to my messy mind, and my tidy desk, and try to figure out where I'm supposed to start, and how it's supposed to go. Maybe I'll whip out a pencil and write all the junk down again. Heaven knows I could use a spare hard drive for all the junk I've picked up. I wonder where I can get hardware big enough to hold it all?
Name: This Woman Alone About Me: I am one woman, trying to stay awake as my life rushes past. I do my damnedest to get it right and have stopped counting the successes and failures. These are my reflections on the whole gory show. See my complete profile
