Rest

Every storm has its origin.

My species relishes the task of describing the why’s of it all.  To mentally replicate the significant transitions. In effect; to know

It’s a source of pride, I suppose, to convince others of our clan that we have understanding.  Perhaps by extension convince ourselves and others that we have a degree of control over future events.  I have been treading in a morass of contradictions. I see labels that might describe feelings at a particular point; again in the midst of an age long effort to understand with confidence in predicting.  To Judge is to define. Yet, along with the emotions of uncertainty comes the similarities I share in conversations over interpretations of meaning on the many facets of events that manifest without conjuring.

So is our plight.  So is our joy.

I walked out on the drive towards the mailbox to post my vehicle license renewal. 

It was the time of year to execute the ritual of sending a check for a decal to put on the license plate announcing I was in full compliance with necessity.  I recently read a reel where the author was dissecting the use of emotions externally versus internally. 

It caught my interest; in a never ending downpour of versions of living. 

With the Internet, it was becoming a common occurrence of addressing long standing premises with new points of view.  Some predict dire outcomes.  I toyed with them as a child finding items henceforth unknown and undefined.  I tasted the rendition as one would a new confection.  I was wondering about the absence of drive; of deference towards those aspects of activity I used to care about.  The thrill was absent. Part of me was concerned; part of me didn’t care that I didn’t care.  A sliver of discussion spoke on the necessity of rest.  Where the spirit was exhausted.  I might just identify with that.  Quieting the mind was like herding cats of course, since I had allowed my thinking to take me at its whim.

I suppose I might resort to some label to provide a comfort of sorts.  If I were in such a state, then I could suspend responsibility and seek attention and special privileges.  But I know that about victim-hood, and how it was a sham.  So could I convince myself to delude myself to wear a cloak of deception from what I was so thirsty to drink up? 

Genuineness has eluded me for so long, would recognize its appearance once I tore away all the guises I use to protect myself from a fear of repeated abuse?  I often consider was it the perpetrator of violence I had to reconcile, or that I agreed I wasn’t worthy of respect so then the wounding was deeply psyche, only to support a poor version of my value? 

Clearly I am talking it over with myself as I type out the words;  Perhaps an insight shared with me that I write for no other reason than to sense a connection; where the notion of being abandoned was just a conclusion that fit my disappointment of not being cherished.  Taken to the next level: by me.

I can carry that water for some time; I have already.  I am sad at the moment when I reconcile. I've punished others for my own dis-ease.  Not that I will make any significant change, since a lifetime of maneuver gifts me with talents that I no longer need.

I do wish to be gentle; as I am prone to desire kindness for others.  Then shift is difficult; I recognize trying.  If ever there were a purpose towards meaning, wouldn’t it be that?

Pay attention was offered to my awareness the other week.  I distilled it to “Heed” and “Observe” even “Listen”.  These comfort my angst….a bit.  Adaptation is an effort to contend with a situation undesired…unwanted….certainly unneeded..(unnecessary)

      As I posted my letter into the mailbox, I felt the freshness of the morning air.  Just cool enough to get my attention.  I continued to puzzle on the ideal of “rest”  How I planned to stop busy? I wanted company in the effort, but I couldn’t figure out a way to recruit Montse to my plight.  On impulse I swept the walk to the front door. 

It was littered with shell casing of the multitude of buds opening to welcome the Spring.  As I pushed the husks off the walk I wondered the impermanence of the effort.  Wind would carry more, and in a very short time the walk would show no evidence of my effort.  Never-mind measured in a parade of days, weeks or months.  What was the significance of the effort beyond action without a plan?  I swept for no purpose, no need, no task to be accomplished.  I did it mindless of reason, something meaningful in the moment. Suddenly a drop of rain hit me in the forehead. 

It startled me out of capture. 

I conjectured it as a divine playful gesture to wake me from my aimless revelry.

Yes…..playful…..now that’s something of interest.