I feel I am forever meandering in and out of the folds of my life. I nestle into one fold then can’t seem to rise up and find the grit I need to dive into another. This blanket, this world, this imagined reality is comforting and yet, in a flash, it shows itself to be wafer thin.
I can see through it — beyond my daily bowl of oatmeal, beyond my feeble attempts to train the perfect puppy, beyond my routines of keeping up with dirt and dishes – I see there is a fold untouched.
The spectacular lies just beyond my meanderings. The awe-inspiring lies a fold away.
How do I move into that fold? How do I meander towards something more than just this stalemate? How do I make that move? That move that will relieve the small sense of loss I feel as time slips by and expectations go unmet.
My novel falters in fits and starts — more fits than starts. It lies abandoned a fold away, a distraction, a creative arena I have no energy for right now.
I do love letters and I will love my novel again, but this feeling of meandering is connected to its unfinished-ness and it is hurting me. I’m feeling less, unworthy, failed and sad. I cannot do all that I want to do right now. My new puppy takes up more of my time than he can chew. My documentary project needs the fullness of my imagination. Meandering feels like aimlessness in the midst of accomplishment. It is a sour note in a beautiful song. It is yellow pee in lovely white snow.
I’m not sure I have a point to make — that’s the nature of meandering. It might just be this. If we don’t forgive ourselves, if we don’t allow ourselves to not be spectacular or awe-inspiring, to not be human and mundane, then we end up feeling bad about who we are. I am not all I could be, but I am all I need to be right now.
I am unfolding.