How do we know or measure who we are or who we've become? Once something is observed even a memory it's changed.
I fill the madness of isolation (aka loneliness) with thoughts about me. Thoughts about grief, loss, and love. Absorbing them into moments of my life as it has become. At times it's an endlessly suffocating loop of WTF and why? At other times a crystal clear understanding of my journey and all it has served up.
Clearly I've drank deeply from the realm of grief. I've imbued past moments and memories into my being, into my current self. I know that the wound of grief has let light in. Grief has afforded me knowledge. Even as my heart exploded open from loss I discovered more of me. I've felt love for others and great compassion. As I'v observed, it's apparent that it has not afforded me agency over myself or others. I'm just a visitor residing in a world while waiting for an expiration date.
I keep moving (aka busy) so water will run over my gills to keep me alive and my ideation at bay. The water I run over my gills are chores. I've agency over chores. Yet at the end of the day the mental check list of done, done, done, and done is nada. A shrug. Seriously that was it?
The next morning when I wake and don't want to leave my bed. The film of bitterness about yesterday fills my taste buds. I force myself out of bed. A bold act of spite directed at me. A statement of self loathing. I will show me what's not there.
As the day begins and espresso settles in I'm filled with ideas and thoughts of things to serve up meaning and purpose. (Which begs the question to whom?) I want go beyond beyond cleaning the soap buildup in the shower. I get charged by ideas like this post. Or the Donna and Mark Memorial Trust I'm building. Those are a stand alone small things of meaning that I cannot help but think they are tree falling in the woods. if no one hears did it happe? This is sandpaper abrading any faux meaning and purpose. Without notice is it really meaningful and purposeful? Does it matter if no one sees? I want to embrace the fact, small acts can have meaning and purpose even if unseen.
Yet, I was dipped in the river of mediocre at birth. If I'm being generous I'm simply average. Residing in the middle of the bell curve. That's fine. In some ways we all are average. We are the shadows of humanity, otherwise, those with agency, meaning, and purpose cannot shine brightly. I accept average and rail against it. Kinda. I want to be more. Kinda. My reach should extend beyond my grasp. An unfulfilled mantra.
A NYT 's article "You Can Learn to Love Being Alone" by Holly Burns addresses my current state of being. A state that most of us at a certain age and place in life will have to accept. Alone and what to do with it?
People who pursue solitude of their own volition “tend to report that it feels full — like they’re full of ideas or thoughts or things to do,” Dr. Thomas said. In this way, it’s distinct from loneliness, a negative state in which you’re “disconnected from other people and it feels empty.”
Yes empty when it is forced on you following loss and grief. To pursue solitude by choice demands I abandon my self-doubt. Embrace that I can be mediocre and alone with me and not gag. Accept small things have meaning and purpose. Step away from compare and despair. Hold ideation at bay. The trope I am using is: stay in my lane. I surrender any vision or hope or belief or drive I have to just being. To stop the needy me with others.
I resign myself to remain within my lane to find peace in solitude (a euphemism for lonely). Being in control of that solitude and not allow comparison to be the thief of joy. Appreciate the gift of grief and loss and love.
I accept that even at times small beings can do small things that have meaning and purpose. Finding those things are quest like moments.
I loved Donna more than I loved myself.