The refrigerator humming is the only sound the house makes this morning. I'm tempted to go unplug it and experience quiet. Even both computers are off because our ISP is down.
I feel no need to fill this quiet with any noise whatsoever. Although my pen does scratch and squiggle as I write. I guess that's is inevitable. It's a sound I'm willing to put up with in order to make order of my thoughts. After the rather gloomy entry, the other day, I'm thinking over how I got to that place in the first place. And this is what I've come up with:
I don't want to have lived my life when all is said and done, in an unconscious way. I don't want to barrel along through the days without having spent time contemplating the meaning of being alive. For if there is no meaning, then to me the trappings of this world are not enough compensation for staying here. It's too much of a mixed bag not to feel the need to sort things out. Why am I here?, is not a rhetorical question it is a vital one.
The rabbi is always telling us that we should try and find an answer to the questions, Why am I here, And how can I make a difference in the world? These are questions that Madison Avenue never asks. They constantly push the idea - - -“How can I get the biggest pile of stuff with the least amount of effort?" or “You need this item right here, and then you will be perfectly happy.”
It's so funny really, thinking that more possessions or more money will bring you happiness or contentment. Happiness cannot be bought. Oh I'll admit that having enough money to take care of your basic needs is very important and the lack of it can be so distracting you can't think of anything else. I have walked more than a few miles in those shoes. But on the other hand our definition of "basic needs " has changed radically over the years hasn't it?
Ah, the questions flow like water and the time slips away. I have to go to work now. And I'll think about this stuff later. (You should see the pile of "to think on the later" items over in the corner.) They are starting to queue up and take numbers and a few of them are getting testy. Elbowing is definitely going on.
Day 2
My 15 minutes of contemplative time begins. . .right. . . Now.
No matter how I try to arrange it, I can only manage to squeeze this much time into my morning to sit quietly and write. I have to tell you I am feeling an almost obsessive desire to scribble. I think it's a stress response. And I'm hoping when I finally do have the time to sit quietly and compose something for hours on end, that my desire will still be there. It's the fear of all writers that the spirit of creativity will desert us at any moment and look for a more fertile mind elsewhere.
I have been day dreaming up ideas for having paper and pen handy at all times. Because frankly at odd moments, little snippets of ideas to follow up on come to me and if I don't write them down, they evaporate into oblivion. What about a nice little notebook on a silk cord that I could wear around my neck with a little tiny pen attached to it? Whaddaya think? Fashion statement and practical solution to my sieve like mind losing too many bits of information.
I suppose compared to some people that are going through their midlife struggles, and exhibiting any number of odd behaviors, mine seems a fairly benign one. The only down side being a certain distraction, plus the need for reams of paper in all shapes and sizes and of course the continual search for the perfect pen. Which when I look at what I'm writing with right now seems kinda funny. It's an old-fashioned Bic with the only nod to cutting edge technology being it's blue and white striped grip. Some perfect pen, what what?
Scribble scribble little pen,
( I was going to insert a poem here but my brain suddenly turned to green jello, and I can’t come up with a coherent line to follow that first one….) So….
. . .oh just scribble.