I seem to need to have a meltdown every once in a while. I’m writing for my life and living for my writing, and loving how it’s flowing, except when it’s not, and feeling competitive and lonely and freaked, and bored with myself and my voice, and having a serious issue with meaning, purpose, self-esteem, and existence. Talking and thinking a little too much about death, maybe? Spending maybe a little bit too much time in my own head?
Elsewhere, joy today was a deep two hour nap in crashing wind with a fan blowing just above my head, a light sheet over me, and a cat snuggled up behind my legs. I could have slept all night that way. Instead, I pried myself out of bed at 6 p.m. and ordered a sub, which we picked up on our way out to camp. We ended up at Pine Rest with about 15 other people, sipping drinks, watching the lake and the sunset, and eating dessert pizza, something I did not take a picture of, but will describe here, an 18 inch sugar cookie topped with sweetened cream cheese, strawberries, and blueberries. Very fun dessert to eat. Barbie is always coming up with these clever, fun foods.
I chatted with folks who are visiting from New Hampshire. I met a self-possessed 12 year old woman, who puts me to shame in the self-esteem department, and a proud Mom who is letting go with a wise touch. In one corner a serpentine row of dominoes was being set up to fall.
This morning I could not conjure up last night’s upset. It had spilled completely out of me ( at which point, Honey-Bear finally settled, too, and fell asleep in Contented Doggie Pose). Emptying can be a good thing. All my mental gymnastical suffering, my place, my identity, my duties, what people might expect of me, what I might expect of myself through my idea of them, got suspended by a meltdown and a heavy nap, and I found myself able to just be there, talking and listening and caring and laughing and being.
The moon rose, a large white hemi-disk on its way to becoming a silver plate, and hung in the night sky, just suggesting the shoulders of the goddess whose presence I feel on silky, warm, breezy, humid nights like tonight. Down at camp the lake is a constant, and to be surrounded by water is also to be surrounded by light, reflections of light, and unknown depths.
The call of the loons as we were leaving reached out in the black, tiger lilies of the bird call world, wild, mysterious, bright orange sounds. If I had a voice like that I might never use it. That’s just how I am. Conserving when I should spend, being private about things better shared, afraid to embody my own uniqueness for fear it won’t be liked.
That damn Like button! Isn’t like the verb equivalent of nice? How was the soup? “Nice, I liked it.” Yet, my kingdom for a Like and I hate being called nice. Go figure.
Back to the dictionary, which tells me that like (verb, trans.) means “ to find agreeable, enjoyable, or satisfactory” and that nice means “ pleasant, agreeable, or satisfactory.” Very close; lots of agreeableness. Maybe that’s what I object to. Maybe I wish I could be just a little unpleasant and disagreeable. Is it possible to be unpleasant and still evoke some flavor of joy? Or is joy forever to be a pleasant and agreeable thing? Maybe I’m just suffering from a steady diet of niceness. Yuck-o!
Whose idea was this, anyway?