I’ve always had an easier time writing out my thoughts and feelings than speaking them. I feel uncertain and fearful of being challenged if I speak. Even with close friends, I have the habit of self-censoring, because I somehow believe that my perceptions are wrong or will be dismissed.
I feel safer writing. I suppose that’s why I don’t share most of what I write, never have. Don’t want to be rejected for my thoughts and feelings. I fear the harshness when people express their disagreement. Truly harsh, or perceived as harsh by me? It matters not, it’s how I feel, my experience of such moments.
So, writing a blog post everyday during NaBloPoMo, even with just a handful of readers, is a challenging task. As trivial as my post may be, I am putting my words out there. Reflecting on yesterday’s self-doubting post, I know that some of my FLS project paralysis is rooted in this fear that nothing I have to say has merit. I know that I can string words together nicely, which I think is a result of being an avid reader all my life, but the validity of what I have to say is eternally in question.
Reading the newspaper this morning, I found that I am reflexively refusing to read any of the articles about GOP plans for the future, the progressive protests again those plans or analysis of the American electorate. I just won’t look at them. I don’t need or want that information in my brain right now. The same goes for the endless FB posts, shared by people who are angry, looking for or offering some form of hope or just generally struggling with the change that is upon us.
But I did read a piece about the Comics Come Home event last night at the TD Garden. A white, male comic made jokes about raping women on the cobblestone streets of Boston and tossed out anti-Semitic comments. And people laughed. Meanwhile, comedienne Wanda Sykes, a black lesbian, was booed for her commentary on the election. Here’s a link to the Globe article. One thing that I find interesting about the coverage is that there is video of Sykes, but none of DiPaola’s routine is included. What’s up with that?
I don’t want to talk about the damn election, but it creeps in and provokes rage and sadness. I don’t want to give up my energy, my life force, to this negativity. I want to hoard my time and my fire and use it creatively. Time is of the essence.
After I wrote that, I had to look up the expression. It comes from contract law. Oh, boring. The Urban Dictionary defines it as meaning: Time is the most important thing in the world. I’m not sure about that.
Crows. I heard crows this morning and I felt space open up around me, evoking the same sensation, in a way, as the stones I wrote about the other day. As a child, I heard crows in the morning while at the farm in Vermont. It was so quiet there and then I would hear the crows. My body and heart still respond to their cries with a rush of those childhood feelings of safety and spaciousness. I know that many people consider them ‘a bad omen’, but for me those cawing cries offer a promise of serenity. Funny, is it not?