purple coneflower
I wonder sometimes whether all the stories and words have run out of me for good. Did I use them up? I feel like I keep trying to refill myself, so I can come alive in some way.
The fact is, people are more complex beings than that, more sensitive and mysterious. I can’t just plug in input “x” to get desired output “y.” Feeling sad or empty or disappointed isn’t wrong, or a pathology of some kind; it’s part of life, isn't it?
blazingstar
The earth's life force unfolds all around each day as I garden, walk, breathe. But somehow, energy reserves are still low. (How like a machine I treat myself. Do I allow myself to be tired? Discouraged? Encouraged?)
I have been revisiting my life like a tourist, trying to make sense of it. Making stops at all the sights of the past decades: Writing. Dancing. Costuming. Travel. Languages. Relationships. Therapy. Voluntarism. Work. Do I still like this or that? Does it feel right, interesting, worth doing? Do I feel excited about any of them?
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| meadowsweet |
I suspect what I am actually in search of is a sense of purpose. We can all find hundreds of ways to distract ourselves, to spend our days — but are they meaningful?
When I quit my job 18 months ago, what I thought I would be doing now is gardening, reading, traveling and writing.
My status report:
- In our second consecutive summer drought, expanding my garden empire has been a struggle; nevertheless, she persisted.
- Much reading in hope of awakening my imagination with stories and magic, no noticeable effect.
- Neither the energy or desire to do much writing or traveling at all. And I feel disappointed about not having that energy and enthusiasm. And a little worried.
Amid the dry-yet-glowing landscapes of high summer, that is the uncomfortable interior landscape I’m inhabiting.
wild bergamot
Blessed be those who thirst in spirit. On quest I go, through the withering forest. O let me find the spring where runs the water of life, and let me drink deeply.
