I’ve been thinking. In general, just thinking and my mind chasing its own tail, racing around itself on possible choices and the paths those possible choices would create. While in part choice equals freedom, it also can equal being completely arrested by the potentials that “choice” represents.
I find solace from the chaos of my mind in small acts of relative unimportance.
In cleaning my office, organizing my kids’ artwork, making food for the week. Being decisive in small ways that amount to a larger tangible payoff when combined.
This too, seems to be the illusion of future; that there is any one choice that supersedes any other. Maybe what you have for lunch is as important as whom you marry. Maybe only because we are equally as guided in both situations and they hold equally as much weight in the unfolding of our futures. They both matter. And they both do not.
I believe we are here to unfurl from the tightness of attachments- to open. To open, open and open more. Each “choice” big or infinitesimally small being a doorway to opening. I think that ultimately this opening is leading us to be free from the attachment of our experience of identity and “reality” itself. We are thrust continuously into the walls of our own creation only to realize we can reach right through them.
When I feel powerless by the exhaustion of choice I’ve made a habit of slowing down and simplifying. Of cleaning, weeding, and doing the little things that I can experience a direct result from completing. I think it settles the nerves to feel in control, as illusory as this is and as ever evolving as the to-do’s are, we need to feel the reigns between our fingers at times, in order to release ourselves into the momentum of the galloping horse.
There are some things you just can’t quantify- creativity, balance, sense of self, to name a few. We cannot quantify emotion, we cannot quantify joy or fulfillment or apathy. We cannot quantify the meat of what makes us, us at any given moment.
Unlike days, or years, or the GPS of our external environment, our internal environment has no laws or boundaries. It is in reckless rebellion to structure and order.
The stuff that matters live like nomads in the jungle of our souls and who are we to say where the boundaries are? Where one country, one emotion, begins and where another ends?
I feel like I am learning how to be alone again. Maybe it’s that im learning how to accept myself, as me, right now.
Would’nt it be easy if “right now” just didnt change? But that is the illusion, that there is any definition of right now. Right now can only exist in the framework of there being a NOT right now. But we know that doesn’t exist. There will never be a not right now, there will never be a right now, there will just be this element, this essence of our experience at any given quantifiable breath, that we will try to box into a singular moment.
I think that’s where poetry comes in. Poetry IS the threshold. Poetry is NOT the experience, and our descriptors in words and syntax and sounds are only sign posts. But poetry is the most gallant effort our hearts make at self reflection, or this insatiable urge to quantify self.
If this is true, perhaps INSTABILITY can be summed up as the inability to release attachment to the changes taking place.
I think we have this idea that just like “happiness”, “stability” is this type of “destination-emotion” that we somehow eventually arrive at. Instead, it seems more moment to moment. And in that moment of conscious choice to adapt, or release our grasp of what we know, we find stability. It’s almost like the balance that exists between steps- the innate and subconscious release of one footing to the next.