Coming home

And so I remain at an unresolvable juncture: the intersection of the very strong belief that we must experiment with new modes and systems of communication, and the certain knowledge that every time I so much as glance at anything shaped like a social feed, my brain smoothes out, the web of connections and ideas I’m weaving is washed away, and I tumble downstream, only to have to pick myself up and trudge heavily through the mud back to where I belong.

It’s exhausting. It is, at this point in my life, unsustainable. I cannot dip into the stream, even briefly, and also maintain the awareness and focus needed to do my own work, the work that is uniquely mine. I cannot wade through the water and still protect this fragile thing in my hands. And perhaps I owe to my continued senescence the knowledge that I do not have time for this anymore. Perhaps it’s age that grants the wisdom to know where my attention belongs and the discipline to be able to direct it. The great power of a middle-aged woman is that she knows where to give her fucks.

This is such a beautiful article, a great example of what it means to have a vision for your own life’s work and to go for it.

This website is a container that fit my needs around the COVID era, but now? I’m ready to start fresh. Dream big. Figure out what it is I want out of this site and start making it that way.

The same dreaming is also taking place in meat space. My wife gave me permission this week to build a new shed and a new mini office in our backyard. I get to spend all winter dreaming of what I want to see, and then I get to spend all spring / summer / fall making it a reality.

Perhaps related: I haven’t had a nightmare in months now. I’ve had a few bad dreams, but nothing close to the paralyzing terrors that met me nightly for around a decade straight.

Life’s good right now.