There are mornings when it seems like I have nothing to say. Perhaps those kinds of mornings are more common than I am aware of, and I am typing anyway, not realizing I have nothing to say. That I so often find myself describing my experiences, after having lived for so many years feeling like I was struggling to get something out, is different. At this point I feel like there is not much that I do not share.
Well, that’s not totally correct. Often I feel frustrated, alone, not understood. I mostly don’t go into that. It just seems nonproductive. Usually, when I start writing, those feelings evaporate. Clearly, writing has evolved to become an important part of my process of integrating feeling integrated with my community and myself. Interestingly, the process of integration often begins with my feeling isolated.
Evidently, it is central to my creative process to be in touch with that part of me that is alone while connecting to that which is connected. It feels somewhat paradoxical that accompanying myself while frustrated, alone and not understood is integral to my feeling connected, accompanied and part of something larger than myself.
Seeking integration, achieving integration, is about isolation and accompaniment.
Exploring, weighing, interpreting and integrating biological, social, ontological and personal information is clearly metaphoric for simply embracing different elements of myself. How is it possible to understand anything that is not really about the self? Where does anything get stored if not in a drawer, an interpretation apparatus, which already exists?
Right now it’s feeling like everything is art. Whatever we do, it is an attempt to both reveal the self while at the same time change the definition of the self, providing more ways that self can be revealed. This is a very male view of the world. Males seem to struggle with the nature of barriers, females with the dynamic of relationship.
This is one of those mornings when I feel male and alone.