Yesterday my soul was singing. I had all kinds of energy and put it to good use from sun-up to sun-down. (that is, of course, a metaphor, or what you take by faith here in the Pacific NW since we rarely SEE the sun at this time of year). . . Today my soul is swamped, slogging through the gray lands of low energy and distant vision.
When I reel myself back a little I can point to the logically predictable patterning of energy. High energy output is followed by the required low energy state to revitalize the system. It makes sense. This cycling is obvious in the natural world. I readily accept that my roses must go dormant all winter long. The canes must die down and energy must descend into the roots and lie quiet to restore strength for the heroic journey of growth to come in the spring & summer. Are we really that much different?
I know very well that following an extraordinary output of energy I will be fatigued, often in spirit as well as in body. It works best for me when I don’t fight it, when I surrender to the needs of my physicality as well as my emotionality . . . Like a lot of things in this human life, knowing it does NOT equal living it as gracefully as the roses in my backyard. I seem to go through this endless pattern of waking up grumpy, groggy-lost in a land of tasteless monotony. After a while of wallowing I remember where I was yesterday and then it begins to dawn upon my consciousness--Oh yeah, this is the natural repose needed after the exceptional expenditure the day before.
I confess that directly following this awakening my little monster called Mingis breaks into the scene giving me a hard time for not getting this right away. Mingis, affectionately named after a former math teacher, is like one of those hideous pop up windows we tolerate to get free access on the web. Mr. Mingis routinely threw erasers at his students when he perceived them slacking in anything less than complete and instant erudition of the world of algebra . . . This meant he had a vast number of erasers and many made their way to my desk. He was bizarrely skilled, had the aim of a major league pitcher. The funny thing is that I don’t remember anything about algebra, and I remember him, fondly in fact . . . Most likely because he had the bravado to be that outrageous. Oddly inspirational in my experience. Nobody was going to name him teacher of the year, and he ALWAYS commanded attention.
My Mingis shows up to throw a little salt into my wound . . . “Why did it take you so long to figure it out! You should know this by now!” Love this guy, right there to attempt stealing away my burgeoning awareness. I used to concede to his thievery. I would become very young, helplessly hunch over the internal desk and wait for the erasers to fly. I am pleased to notice that now when Mingis pops into my inner landscape I disable him just like the pop-up windows that show up on the browser of my mac, unless of course I’m amused by him and his antics. That didn’t result from knowing he was a little monster in my psyche . . . it took time and inner work.
I think that at the heart of all this is a malignant impatience, perhaps even an arrogance in the face of the awesome work it is to participate in our own human development and the evolution of our species. It takes time, and work. It is dependent upon our genetics, our early conditioning, societal circumstances, economy, education, and hundreds of factors, some of which I can see and other’s that I cannot. That is humbling.
We are amazingly complex, extraordinarily interconnected and affected by everything from butterfly wings to the northern lights, global warming, the war across the ocean, the love of friends, and the homeless in our town. In vain I have thought I will behave differently by knowing differently, and at some point I might . . . IF I do the hard work of development, self-confrontation and surrender to the painfully obvious right in my face and in my body. I’m tired . . . it’s natural--not rocket science . . . rest!
That’s what this artist is thinking about today . . .
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