…some things do get. Some singers. Some poetry. Some friendships—that’s the best one. And some words.
Whether those words were good to start with, or whether we have just mellowed into some sort of acceptance about them, is a conundrum.
Have we learned forgiveness? Or just resignation?
For those of us whose training, practice and inclination have led us to reject anything less than the very best of our writing selves, it is a puzzlement. What is the difference in us between what we see as hopeless and what we hope is promising…two states of mind that often follow upon one another with days—even hours—between them?
What sours our own writing to our ears? What lets us find the song in it?
This changeable condition is not attributable to the amount of sunshine through the window or a clinical-load of B12…at least I don’t think so. And after a vivid dream of a most unsatisfactory conversation with an individual (a real person) whose great injustice changed my life, I am even more confused.
I should have begun the day defeated. I haven’t. I am about to launch into an orgy of self-aggrandizing letter-writing, a prospect about as appetizing to me as sucking on a rotten egg. I’m creaking like a derelict ship from an overly enthusiastic exercise session…it hurts to move, but I don’t care. I’m still waaaayyyyyy too in love with a pivotal passage in the work, and still too earthbound in an entire section…conditions that should be vexing me greatly. They’re not.
I am a little closer to the universe. A little more aware of my Buddha nature—even if I am nowhere near Samadhi.
Damn, what is wrong with me today? I should be kicking and screaming. Why aren’t I? Or is it that I’m just getting better with age?