Calculating the many variables is a rather useless undertaking. Humanizing and contemplative, yet leading to dead ends. Passage of time, minutes creep by, checking and checking and checking. Thankfully, I find myself irritated by myself (queue analogy about being tight in a bud, compelled to bloom). Find myself curious, digesting disappointment and landing closer to indifference than the time before.
The patterns present ever more clearly, generating compassion and resignation. Things are as they are, not more nor less. Even kicking and screaming, dragged to the middle-- maybe even pissed about the lessons. I tire of the diligence and calculated control, the reflections discovered by some mix of compulsion and principle. To learn and to grow from each little stumble, each little proclamation of courage. I've long yearned for carelessness, to not hold such a tight commitment to whatever ethics best frame any situation. But to yearn is, to some degree, a denial of self.
The many times I've co-signed dishonest entanglements, driven by invisiblized survival maladaptation. Work until they don't, fun until overshadowed by the gutting of sanity. The madness is at work, nearly always. Rarely can spirits unfold and reveal in precisely complimentary ways, a veritable weaving of yours and mine. All the reasons why this way or that. The error, they say, is believing the absurdity and unpredictability might be controlled. Let it fly, let it be, leave it be. The patience and other notable qualities demanded must become so common place, they cease to be seen by oneself.
And yet, it's not as if I don't calculate in the necessity of play, of unregulated meandering. Just because. And because I am imperfect, am protective, am observant, am scanning the horizon. In knowing myself, I learn to allow space for knowing others-- the ways we show up or don't. Forcing framing is a mostly faulty practice.
Re-committing to these teachings and gospels, I see the road, the obstacles, the plentiful joys. I can't help but be thankful, that it was, that it is, that it could be. These very many wild and wonderful exposures I've known. A life lived, a life examined. Worth the salt, demanding of perpetual hydration. In these knowings, I am released.
"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world." -Walt Whitman
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