I am aware that if I look back on the various posts I’ve written on this blog, I would find the personal pronouns referring to yours truly too numerous to bother counting. I’ve ventured out of my box a little here, a tad bit there, but for the most part I’ve focused my opining and whining squarely on the space that surrounds me, the things that happen to me, because of me, and by my hand. It’s a bit boring, isn’t it? I’m very interested in finding a place in life in which what I’m thinking about — what concerns me — is more interesting than, well, me.
For the moment, however, I’m still figuring out which foot goes where in order to move forward. One of the biggest obstacles to that in the last year or so has been a lack of space.
I don’t mean physical space. I’ve got enough of that. I don’t mean time. Time has been there – in snippets, which is a big part of the problem. Imagining life differently than it is takes an extraordinary amount of space. That space is emotional, mental, and creative, and if it is diminished by fatigue, it is destroyed by fear. Of course fear – my fear, at any rate – comes from self-doubt. I’m not sure what it is that I’m doubting, because I haven’t even figured out what it is that I’m asking myself. But I do know that I haven’t had the space to even begin to formulate that question. So the possibilities, rather than seeming endless as they might, seemed painfully finite. Suffocating. Doom and gloom.
And then that changed.