Blogs are such shameless exhibitors of their creator's diligence or lack thereof... Being a writer, I find that I'm more subject to my whims of feeling or not, instead of the other way around. I suppose that's the way it is with everything: learning how to bend our fantastical whimsies to the gentle hands of structure, commitment and dedication...
Today, I am feeling humbled and sad. There are truths about myself that I must face that only those in my inner circle have gently been able to cause me to see. I must change or perish. And of course, it's never that serious, is it? But our emotions are funny things, are they not? Making mountains out of molehills, mansions out of cardboard boxes, dreams come true out of the most destructive circumstances...
I am therefore coming to the humbled position, slowly as though I'm being carried on a stretcher to the base of it's throne, that my feelings are not to be my end-all, be-all, my guru and teacher. There are higher truths, bigger and more meaningful committments, wiser guides than these. Which in and of itself, is sad. My feelings - are just that - mine; and sometimes taste of the sweetest honey... of course, the bitter aftertaste is so often forgotten about...
I am reading, again, Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Risking the tinny sound of blasphemy, I'll tell you that this lovely memoir is quickly becoming my Bible - my voice for feelings and moments who up to this point have been mute for lack of expression: I'll end with something she writes.
We open on Liz in Chapter 4, weeping, in a pile on her bathroom floor where she has been every night for the past two months, dealing with all the torrent of pain and grief that a person goes through who just can't be married anymore and doesn't know what to do. She has sobbed herself in the middle of her own Lake Inferior, when for the first time - ever? - she cries out to God. Her prayer ends with her begging over and over, "Please tell me what to do,"; and all of a sudden, her weeping stops. The tears and sobs are simply gone; and in their place a stillness and then, a voice. "Go back to bed, Liz."
She follows up that moment by stating that "true wisdom give the only possible answer at any moment, and that night, going back to bed was the only possible answer."
