I thought that I should write something. Or could write something. Or would write something. Now that I’m logged into my old account and staring at the editor, it may turn out I’m wrong on all counts.
I’ve had a fear of writing anything. There are reasons for vows of silence, after all. It is easy to misstep when you open your lips. Silence, too, can be a misstep. It can send wrong messages, false signals.
The worst of all word dangers, perhaps, is sending wrong messages and false messages to ourselves. Rather than excavating hidden truths, they can be used to bury the obvious. They can be a pile of covers to hide under when we don’t want to see what’s lurking close to the bed. The words we tell ourselves can dangerously skew our view of reality.
Shame is another thing that can lead to silence. Those who feel ashamed can feel it is better not to speak.
So what in my life is leading to silence? What is leading me to want to break it?
This isn’t so much an update so far as it is psycho-analysis. This isn’t 2008, for goodness sake. I’ll try to change course.
Then again, reality seems too personal. What’s going on with the one kid. What’s going on with the other. Spouses, jobs, religion. Everything is a tightly balled knot of anxiety. Of things in a state of precarious balance or things already pushed and falling and waiting to meet their terminus. And the rest of it is just coping.
Sometimes the coping is the deepest reality. Am I coping, am I not? How do things really stand with me? How do things stand between me and, not any circumstance, not anyone or anything, but how they stand between me and the life I have been given? How is my relationship to my being and the source of that being, whatever it might be? The word ‘coping’ doesn’t really do that relationship justice.
So here I am, writing to connect, or to cope, or to obscure. Maybe for a little of all three. Or maybe for a lot.
If I write again, I’ll try to write about actual things. I’m sure there are some.