12. Why Create?

In middle age, I have come to relish the rewards found in work. I’ve never been a career-driven sort of person, but always ended up in little niches where I can find satisfaction and outlet for creativity and my somewhat obsessive tendencies. I’ve rarely worked on a project for more than a few months, so my longer-term writing and singing projects are making me grow in new ways. I see that commitment yields results: improvement in my skills and self-esteem among many other things.

Life is short, and there is no reason not to do what my spirit calls me to do: learn, love, create, express…. Yet, I have stifled myself, talked myself out of taking yet another photo, making yet another necklace, or writing a journal entry, because I can’t find a value in that thing. What does the world need with more—even just virtual—things?

It’s true, the world is brimming over with things. But what’s littering up the planet is mass-produced junk for consumers, which is a little different from what I’m talking about. Whatever spark of creativity, however small, that went into making that junk has been extinguished. The destructiveness of junk far outweighs its constructiveness, I think. But true creativity is an antidote to destruction, no? Creativity is our nature, and I think it’s incumbent upon us to let it flow.

Some of this nature is just part of being an animal. Nesting involves creativity, mating displays involve creativity, and hunting may require creative thinking. Our brains are programmed to solve problems. So we’ve got the mechanics, but then there’s Spirit, or our higher self. This is the part of me that comes out when I’m hiking in the woods, and who wakes up when the rest of me goes to sleep at night. This is the part of us unencumbered by ego or time or obligation, when random elements collide and fuse inside of us into something entirely new. The lightbulb moments. Creativity, when unburdened by motives and goals is pure Spirit moving through us.

Creativity for me can be an emotional roller coaster if I don’t anticipate and prepare for the ups and downs. It is inevitable after every season-end choir performance, I experience an emotional letdown. Weeks and months of work, of collaboration, of sweat and worry and memorizing and honing, have come down to a few hours, and then the audience goes wild with applause, and perhaps my friends congratulate me, and then it’s over, and I go home, and feel empty. I made magic with my fellow choristers—we created a real, living entity in the music—but now it’s gone. I’m kind of in mourning. The music keeps playing in my head. But there’s no one to sing with. It’s just memories. So, perhaps I’ll get out a songbook and start working on something by myself, anything, to quell the echoes still ringing in my head. The immersion in the creative process brings me back into balance.

This year, my choir season is longer than usual. I am leaving today on a roundabout trip to Nice, France, where I’ll be in just over a week, to sing with my choir in a church just blocks away from the scene of the recent tragic events. I know that being there won’t be easy. But musical concerts are living, ephemeral creations of sound and beauty that have the power to move us to our core. I don’t have the goal of fixing or healing anything or anybody, but in performance, we never know how a song, or even what particular word or note in a song, is going to affect people. It’s out of our hands.

So, just as I wondered if life is more meaningful when shared, is the product of our imagination more meaningful when shared? (When a tree falls in the forest…) Yes, I think so! And I don’t believe I’m contradicting myself here. I simply because I am moved to. But how incredibly rewarding if our creativity results in someone being moved or touched, or provoked into thought or action. This is unpredictable though, and it mustn’t be our goal. It’s lovely for the ego, but potentially addictive, and ultimately meaningless if we don’t enjoy the process.

If we feel good when we sing, when we paint, when we cook, this is reason enough to do it. But when we share open-heartedly, it elevates that creation. It approaches alchemy. What more reason do we need?

I’m off—to fly, rest, to visit, and then to sing!

11. What are the best things about summer?

I thought we needed a little more comic relief around here. I was a little nervous about posting this though, so I tried it on Facebook earlier today. It went over well!

So many of the things I love about summer begin with “B”: blackberries, barefoot walking on the beach, bees going crazy for my lavender. And—boobs. Bosoms. Beautiful bouncing breasts! Lest you think me lustful, aren’t all mammals programmed to home in on breasts? So soft and sensually contoured…. Oh heck, maybe I am lustful. But in the most innocent fashion. How can I not look down a cyclist’s v-neck top when her cleavage is right at eye level? Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.

Now, to expand on the question of boobs, I wonder if my fixation is because I wasn’t breastfed as an infant. I had to make do with bottles and formula. Perhaps that’s why I love drinking through straws as well, for that steady stream of liquid. Hmm, maybe this is TMI—too much information.  I’m really coming out as a boob-lover now. And don’t get me started on nipples. Guys have ’em too, you know…

10. Why does the weather affect me?

I have woken up again feeling blah. I know that this is partly because I didn’t get enough sleep.  The work I thought was going to take around four hours yesterday took 12. I did the last ever, for sure, final, no-more-tweaking edits on my manuscript text and photos. Hurrah!

This means that of course I went to bed exhausted, which is never good. I have eyestrain. My back and neck were in agony from sitting that long. My brain was mush. So no wonder I feel like crap this morning. But it’s also the weather! Yesterday was bright and sunny and although I spent most of it indoors slaving away I was in a good mood. Now, it’s one of those rare days in summer when the air is still, coolish, the sky uniformly grey and low and thick, and it doesn’t know if it wants to rain or clear up. There’s an oppressiveness about it. Either rain or sun would provide relief, but right now I feel a combination of antsy, sluggish, and weepy. Yuck!

The tempting thing to do is find emotional reasons for this. And believe me, I can find them. So-and-so hasn’t called or emailed—that’s one thing. Then, the book—finishing what my husband started writing decades ago. It’s a bittersweet completion. Next, my computer and printer are both on the fritz, which is so inconvenient at this moment when I am scrambling to get things done for my trip. I am getting on a plane in five days, alone, and I’m weary of traveling alone. I should be excited for my summer plans but there was just a horrific terrorist incident where I’m headed. I could stay home, but apparently there’s a sexual predator in the neighbourhood. He’s reported to be on bike in the park where I walk. I believe I even saw him the other day and thought something about him was a little “off”. There is lots to be upset about.

Indeed these are real things, not imagined, and smart to consider along with the associated emotions. But on a sunny day it’s likely I wouldn’t be feeling them as extremely.

So, back to my question about the weather. Some people enjoy rain and cooler weather. Bless them. But generally, sunlight is positively correlated with good mood. Studies have shown this. We need light so that our bodies produce melatonin and then seratonin, one of the feel-good neurotransmitters. Cooler temperatures are apparently associated with reduced blood flow, which perhaps is associated with sluggish chi. I’m sure I’ll feel better after my walk. Not sure I’m going through the woods today though. Sigh.

I’ve also long thought that air pressure has a lot to do with my mood. We all know people whose arthritis flares up when the weather changes. In fact, my own arthritic index finger is like my own personal barometer, when it starts to throb as the air pressure drops.

So, if you remember from high school science, when air pressure drops, air molecules expand, along with whatever gases or fluids are in the vicinity. So, for us, this includes the fluid surrounding our joints—sinovial fluid, and cerebrospinal fluid—in our spine and brain.

As well as the physical discomfort this can cause, does it also affect mood? There are studies that show correlation, but it’s hard to be definitive about correlation. This doesn’t mean much. There are a lot of things that science hasn’t developed means of measuring yet, especially if there isn’t a lot of money in it.

So, is the trick to increase air pressure in my home? How would I go about doing this? It’s certainly not airtight and I don’t think that would be a good idea. Perhaps just knowing that I am sensitive in this way is a start. I shall just try to ignore, and get out of this chair and do my thousand chores. No pressure of course! Ha ha….

9. How is rock climbing good for me?

I’m a little cheeky, posing this one as a question, as I already know the answer. Bear in mind, I’m not a serious rock climber, and I don’t need serious rock climbers to tell me I’ve got it all wrong. Because—it’s about the metaphor.

Obviously, rock climbing keeps the body in shape. And any exercise is good for the mood, with the flood of endorphins and other happy brain chemicals. Also, the rock climbing community is a really friendly bunch, so it’s a way to keep socially healthy too. But for me, it’s a spiritual exercise that’s become a personal symbol for me.

Let me explain. A number of years ago I thought I’d take up rock climbing because a number of my friends did it, and I loved watching their feats of athleticism. I signed up at my local climbing gym, took lessons, and then went a few more times after that. I stopped mostly because I didn’t want to pay money to get fit, indoors, when I could be outside getting exercise for free.

The whole experience was a valuable one though, and the learning has stuck with me as a rich metaphor.

On my first ever full climb, I got all decked out in the gear and hitched up to the equipment, looked up at the huge, high wall in front of me, and just about fainted. And this was the equivalent of a bunny hill! But I had good instruction, and a good buddy belaying me. So, I eyed up a suitable route, took a deep breath, and climbed on.

As I took my first step, I started shaking. But I knew that I would completely freeze unless I moved. I looked up. This made things worse. How the hell was I going to make it all the way to the top? Again, I took a deep breath, took another step, made sure my footing was secure, grabbed a hand hold, and used my leg strength to push my way up. It didn’t take as much upper body strength as I thought it would. I didn’t have to pull myself. As long as my feet were firmly on holds, I could push myself up.

After my second triumphant step, the next was ever-so-slightly easier. But I looked up again. Still a long way to go. Scary. I began shaking again. But I remembered that I was safe. I continued on and stopped shaking.

I soon realized that I didn’t have to keep looking up so far. The holds were spaced so that one was always nearby, and I began to understand that this meant there were many ways to reach the top, and I didn’t have to plan my entire route ahead. Part of the fun was strategizing as I went along.

At about two-thirds of the way to the top I got excited. I was almost there! The top didn’t look so scary any more. I looked down. My guts did a flip-flop. Yikes! Another thing not to do! There was no reason to look down. If I just kept my eyes on the next holds, I didn’t notice how high I was.

And then, suddenly I was at the top. What elation! I could even imagine myself doing it again.

It’s a similar process, mentally, when I hike every morning (or at least 4-5 morning a week) up the steep little mountain (or large hill) near my house. I see the rocky hilltop when I leave my front door and walk down the street towards the forested foothills. I think, “Wow, I’ll be up there soon!” and almost can’t believe it.

As I enter the forest, the peak disappears from view until I reach the base of the hill, but I don’t look up. I know it will deplete my energy. I ascend at a good pace—not too quickly or I’ll run out of steam, and not too slowly or I’ll lose momentum.

I enjoy becoming intimate with various rocky outcropping and how navigate it each one. Often I am happy taking the same trail for days or weeks, but sometimes I challenge myself with a new, more difficult route. I know how to improvise safely, and where I am not ready to go, I know my ambition will take me there one day. When I reach the top I drink in the 360-degree view and congratulate myself for another good climb.

So this is how I want to live life. I go ahead despite fear. I trust myself and my skills. I trust my helpers. I prepare myself, set my goal in sight, and then focus on the present. I make sure I am grounded and attentive to what I’m doing. I stay safe but not too safe. I challenge myself and follow my creative urges. I don’t look too far ahead and I don’t look back until I reach the end of my task, when I give myself credit for a job well done. I let the beauty sink in. And then—I imagine great things to come.

8. Why do we seek a special someone?

Humans possess a natural urge to pair up, it seems. Biology plays a huge role in this, yet it grips some of us more than others. I never wanted children, though I won’t deny that as a female, I am designed for childbearing, and driven to seek the perfect mate for that purpose. But now I’m older, yet still have an overwhelming drive to share my life with a special someone. Why?

There are practical considerations, of course. We like the security of knowing a partner will care for us when we’re older. This is natural, as we are social animals. Safety in numbers. But the security of partnership is false to a degree, because we can grow apart, and even if we stay together, health concerns and other matters can sometimes be more than a partner can cope with.

Aside from all that, most of us still feel that our lives are better lived in tandem. Is this because are our experiences are more salient, or stronger, when shared?

Yes and no. As I’ve mentioned before, I think on a spiritual level, we’re seeking reunion with Source. On a human level, this most often gets played out with a partner. So yes—when we share with someone who resonates on the same vibration, someone who really gets us, and accepts us wholly (even if they don’t necessarily like every little quirk), then our reality is solidified, joy magnified, pain decreased. And no—when our words fall on deaf ears, our experience isn’t validated, it’s diminished. I am very careful about who I tell things to. There is no reason to waste a precious story on someone who’s just passing time.

Because I value myself and my experiences, I want a prospective partner to match the regard I have for myself. Is this fair? Does it sound egocentric? The thing is, I also want to know and understand and love another person as intimately as possible too. I want to know their hopes and dreams and fears, their most painful hurts and greatest triumphs. I want to see and be seen, know and be known, even though, as I’ve said before, we can never know another completely. But I want to try!

Relationship can be transformational. I know this because I have lived it. It’s not just companionship. It’s not just convenience. We not only share our pleasures and burdens, picking up the slack where the other falls short, but we can spur on and support one another to reach our greatest potential. Committing to a relationship, and navigating the differences and difficulties, is not only committing to another, it’s committing to yourself. The rewards are many. But it takes intention and work.

So now, as there is no other, I commit to relationship with myself. If I am not sharing my life with anyone, I will share broadly. There is too much inside me that needs to come out. I know that my words may fall on deaf ears. But I just have to keep putting them out there and let go.

7. To be or not to be?

Is this the question?

It’s not mine. Sadly, though, I can count more than a few handful of friends who have thought of suicide, one in particular whom I am concerned about right now. And, there are a handful of those who have gone through with it. It’s tragic. I have no judgment, only compassion, for the choice they made.

I think we’ve probably all asked, at some point in our lives, “Why are we here?” or “Why am I here?” We seek THE ultimate reason for being alive. However, having realized there’s no satisfactory, objective answer at present, I think the subjective angle has more value. What does life mean to me personally? Given that I am here, how do I want to spend my time?

Sometimes, when alone in nature, as I was last week, on that magical island, I can be catapulted to ecstatic heights by the sound of a trickling brook, knowing that I am the only one in the world hearing that exact sound at that exact moment. It’s that unbearable lightness of being. Those are my Walt Whitman moments.

However, equally real for me at times, I can witness a beautiful event alone and, having no one to share it with, I feel bereft. The pendulum swings to the other side. Unbearable heaviness of being. Empty. Joyless.

Here’s one of my favourite bits of Shakespeare, from HAMLET, Act 2, Scene 2, Act 2.

I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air—look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

This all brings me back to existential loneliness as part of the human condition. We question life itself when we feel disconnected.

When we, as spiritual beings, are born into this world, into a physical body, part of us feels like it’s ripped away from our source. And I think we’re always trying to recapture the sense of being ALL ONE. As I said before, this is the trap we fall into—the illusion of separation. The great sages and gurus knew this, but most of them had to undergo great trial and tribulation before they came to a place of equanimity. Few of us are so enlightened that we can just simply BE, and not DO, and not be driven to share, and partner up, and create, and solve problems and explore this material realm, with all its bumps and cuts and angst.

I am grateful, that by some twist of fate, though I have touched on the depths of grief and hopelessness, I seem to have a generally happy disposition. This is despite the fact that often it seems the first thing I notice in any situation is what’s flawed. I will just chalk this up to my sensitive ear and observant eye. To me, there are no bad feelings or experiences. Difficult and challenging, but never a waste of time, never too much to bear. Despite a life of losses, my cup is half full. Sometimes, completely full and spilling over!

6. How do “alone” and “lonely” differ?

I must admit that my latest jag was triggered by the recent relationship experiment. But this loneliness has been a lifelong companion.

As a young school-age child, I’d often cry myself to sleep. I explained to my mum that I was sad because nobody at school seemed to like me. At this time I exhibited “selective mutism”.  At home I was talkative and playful, but at school I clammed up and stayed away from others. I think this was part of my sensitivity. I’d get overstimulated by too many people, too many feelings, too much noise. Kids thought I was weird.

But beyond the “ordinary”  loneliness of lacking friends, there was something deeper, a void I knew, even at that age, that other people couldn’t fill. That is when my spiritual life began—which is another story.

I don’t often suffer from ordinary loneliness these days. I am blessed to have many friends with whom to share activities, talk, dine, walk. I treasure them all. And—I take equal pleasure in my own company. Sometimes more.

“Alone” feels powerful to me. Alone is loving yourself and the moment, knowing you don’t need or want anyone else, feeling connected to life!  But “lonely”—well, you can feel utter solitude in a crowd. The most acute loneliness I’ve felt is in an unhappy relationship. Loneliness is lack of connection—and sometimes, just perceived lack of connection.

Lately, I’ve been plumbing the depths. I have woken up crying a few times over the past weeks, wondering if this is what it feels like to be depressed. But eventually, if I don’t just try to push the feelings away, somehow the loneliness itself gives me solace. If I go down deep enough, I surface with this remembrance:

We just trick ourselves into thinking we are alone, because it looks that way. We live in self-contained bodies that house separate brains; we seem to have our own thoughts, motivations, memories. We are animals living in the material world. But we are more than matter; we are part of Spirit, eternally in relationship, as part of the greater whole—Creation, the Universe. At least this is what I believe.

Walt Whitman writes, in Leaves of Grass:

I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

He also writes:

I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Alone, and not alone. Separate and together. Yin and yang. It’s a confounding but comforting paradox.
I like a good word trick. Add an “L” and ALONE becomes ALL ONE.

5. Can a widow find love again?

Recently, after five years of widowhood, I began seeing someone. I’ve rarely been one to use conventional language to describe relationship, but, as nearly as I can describe it, this fellow and I were seeing each other, and then— we were not. We were friends with benefits and now I think we are just friends.

Let me backtrack. After my husband Derek’s sudden death in 2011, I existed for some time in a bubble of love that kept me safe. We’d had such a beautiful, profound, deep and fulfilling relationship that I thought our love would never be depleted, and I would never need a capital “R” relationship again.

I was never angry at Derek for dying, never sorry for myself, never thought, “Why me?” But as time went on, the bubble of love faded, and I was a bit lost. There was no “us” any more—the thing that had both brought us the most joy, and grounding, and meaning.

I remember my dad telling me, after my mum died, that the thing he missed most was coming home after work and reporting the day’s events. I understood this so much more now. Derek and I had snuggled up together every evening and shared whatever mundane or inane things we’d seen and done. We felt seen and heard and understood and validated. Every morning began the same way, with the conscious intention to connect.

We could make each other and laugh at the slightest provocation. Now, though, it seemed that I’d go weeks without laughing. Every day together, we had spoken aloud our love. In previous relationships, partners could be stingy with affection. Not us. But now there were no kisses, no words of endearment or encouragement, nobody rushing to hug me when I walked through the door. No soul-gazing, but my own solitary reflection in the mirror. I was exquisitely, excruciatingly raw. I grieved hard. I fell apart.

Friends helped. They did their best. Company was a good distraction at times, but others not. Some days, I couldn’t wait to come home and be alone. I was getting in touch with loneliness again, and how it could be its own remedy. It’s hard to explain, but the only way through it is INTO it.

I did, and still do, feel my connection to Derek in spirit. But this only helped so much when it came to actually living in the material world, having to go out there and get things done. Slowly and surely I put myself back together. Who was I now, on my own? I did a lot of exploring, inwards and outwards, traveling, trying new things, blossoming, expanding, reconstructing, and I began to feel whole and complete once again, stronger than ever. And after four years I felt ready and willing and able to entertain the idea of being with someone again.

My feelings of desire, and imaginings of a future partnership, were a little frightening and unsettling. I felt a little guilty, longing for love again (such a normal feature of human life), after I’d been so blessed to have it once. How could I have the gall to ask for it a second time? What if I tried and failed? What about all the work it takes to establish a functional relationship? And god forbid, what if I found love again and lost it? I knew that those uncertainties were all part of the package though. Love takes courage.

And then, I felt a tug on my fishing line. What a delightful surprise when I hadn’t even realized I had a line in the water! Someone with a twinkle in his eye. Someone who engaged me in lively and provocative conversation, and knew how to laugh at himself. Someone who, when I suddenly felt his large strong hand resting gently in the small of my back as I walked through a doorway, did not cause me to flinch in surprise, but to settle into that light touch with trust, and perhaps even tentative anticipation.

There was more after that, but the point is, something in me was reawakened. It was exciting, affirming, and a little scary too, but not when I was immersed in the moment. But my mind raced ahead, remembering how wonderful it is to have a “special someone”.

I am a highly relational person. Committed partnership has been the most rewarding experience of my life. To share my life with someone who is equally keen on relating—well, it’s just about the best thing ever. It’s not always easy. It takes compromise to build an “us”. But it’s SO worth it. And now, I know I want it again. But there’s a bit of a setup here, because how can anyone ever measure up to my husband?

They can’t. I need to throw out the measuring stick. Yes, it’s good to know what I value, and to know my bottom line, but we all have to negotiate in relationship, stretch, and learn. We get wiser as we grow older, but we can also become entrenched in our habits and beliefs—even beliefs about what we think we need. It’s important to remain flexible.

I won’t ever have again what I had with Derek. But I’ll have something different, with someone different. The thing is, I have to forget about that fishing line again, and just be me, without anticipating who or what comes next. I must accept the not knowing. And then, perhaps one day my line will entangle with someone else’s, and we’ll each have landed a good catch!

4. Does it matter what anyone thinks?

Does it matter what anyone thinks of my work, or me?

I recently spent a weekend away visiting friends on an island not too far from home. It was a much needed getaway from my current busyness of getting my book published, preparing for a choir tour and cleaning house and garden from top to bottom. No planning, no problem-solving. I sunk into a deep relaxation in a way that I don’t do at home. My empathic nature meant it was easy to resonate with the peace and serenity that my friends, and their island, offered. My aura was refreshed, perhaps! I enjoyed hours of open-ended thought, where questions and insights bubbled to the surface. My creativity was stimulated, big time.

I took some walks alone along beaches that are peppered with some of the most interesting rock formations I’ve ever seen. From what I learned (and I want to know more!) the uniquely contoured and contorted shapes in the sandstone and conglomerate rock are caused not just by mechanical erosion from waves, but the salt water reacting chemically with the material.

The fact that these sites are so close to home blows my mind. To me, what I saw was just as beautiful as anything you’d see in Utah or Colorado, and without the tourist hordes. I took photos, which you see now in two dimensions. But for me, this was a multi-dimensional experience. And how can that ever be adequately conveyed?

Sometimes I wonder why I should even bother trying. No matter how beautiful someone might find my photos, or how descriptive my words are, they still fall short of capturing my experience. And even if someone is standing right next to me, seeing or hearing the same thing, they can have a totally different perception and interpretation. Why does it hurt me so, to know that no one can see the world through my eyes, hear a song through my ears? Perhaps it’s because I know if we all were a little more empathic, or empathetic, we would be a lot closer to having peace in this world.

At least some of us do try to understand each other, to step into each other’s shoes. And ultimately, when I’m grounded in who I am, I remember that it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or feels about me or my work. Yes, I would wish them to interpret me “correctly” but it’s out of my control.

I was in bliss as I explored the rocks. I found them so sensual, otherworldly, evoking other worlds, hieroglyphics, maps and diagrams, human skin and bone, tree branches. Maybe some of it is even kind of ugly, but my eye doesn’t seem to discriminate that way. It’s all beautiful to me. The novelty and inscrutability of the shapes were delightful, made me smile and even laugh. And there was something so erotic, and not just because of the humanoid shapes, but because I was in total communion with nature. I am sure all my chakras were turned up to “11”! This is the kind of experience that in the past, when I’ve shared it, has been met with blank stares, or even negative judgment. I’m eccentric. Weird. Guess so. Walt Whitman and I.

I feel a comforting, giddy, yet reverential and solemn kinship with the American poet Walt Whitman (1819-1892) who had the most exuberant and romantic relationship with nature. He writes, in his epic rambling poem, Leaves of Grass:

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers . . . . loveroot,
silkthread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration . . . . the beating of my heart
. . . . the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore
and darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn . . . .

It feels like both a blessing and a curse to be creative and sensitive. On the positive side, I am rarely bored, even by the most mundane everyday acts and sights. There is too much beauty and magic in every moment to feel bored.

“I think it’s terribly dangerous for an artist to fulfill other people’s expectations. They generally produce their worst work when they do that.”
~ David Bowie

3. What’s it all about, Alfie?

What, life?

Yes, of course—the ultimate question. But also this blog. What’s it about? Why do this?

Oh, you’re still on the self-referential kick?

I guess so. I suppose I think I need to justify myself, and this should be ABOUT something.

You can write what you want, and it will evolve over time.

It’s not that I love writing. I love editing other people’s writing. There is something so satisfying about helping turn something good into something better. As a detail person I can see how and where to tweak and rearrange, what to take out and what to add, how to hone and streamline. It is a pleasure. But to craft my own stories or essays is often pure torture. I am a perfectionist. So this is partly an exercise for me in letting go and settling for “good enough”.  I can no longer afford perfection paralysis. Life is too short!

People write blogs when they have something to share, which I feel I do. But I am hesitant. I treasure my privacy. I am stunned by how freely younger people share their personal business in social media, air their dirty laundry, describe their love lives in detail. To announce the death of one’s parent on Facebook as the first line of communication strikes me as tasteless, insensitive, inappropriate. And then, the photos of breakfasts, and slews of selfies in no great light—seem self-centred and trivial. I hope I’m not coming across as some kind of misanthropist. I love people!

But I don’t want everyone knowing my business. Nor do I want to bore anyone. Yet, I seem driven to express myself, and I can’t pretend there isn’t a desire to be heard. I hope I can skillfully straddle the line between privacy and transparency, and be generous yet economical with my words.

So here I am, taking my baby steps in blog writing. So far so good, on day three. No readership yet, but no major disasters. That’s good enough.