Lughnasa, the Labor Day Moon and Mars
Afternoon note:
In a curious mental place. I’m calm, not spending time worrying about results or outcomes. I’m busy cooking, shopping, feeding, pilling, driving, listening, changing bandages. Organizing crafts people for work here. Dealing with my own health. Working out. Getting sleep. Zooming with friends, family, CBE.
I want to write and paint. I don’t seem able to. That’s not my way. I believe we choose our reality, live into the life we want. Ergo, if I’m not doing something I want to do, I’m not choosing it. An effective and self-motivating belief. Normally. I’m accountable for my life, no one else.
Right now though my mind seems full. That’s the way I experience it anyhow. I’m trying to work on my Groveland presentation for the 27th, It’s Beyond Me. That’s the title, not my problem, btw. I go along, get a little done, find a set of definitions or some great examples, like the Chukchee in 19th century Sibera who would bare their buttocks in the direction of the wind and ask for better weather, then I wander away, no longer interested.
Not procrastination. Sure, I indulge from time to time, but it’s never been a defining feature for me. Not lack of sleep. I’m rested and exercised.
A similar phenomenon when I want to write, paint. When I say write, I mean work on Jennie’s Dead, my current novel about half done. I can’t put myself in the writing mental space. Can’t pick up a brush. Not blocked, Not afraid. My energy seems all used by life.
The other things I’m doing take attention to detail, regular action, compassion, endurance, imagination, follow through. Yes, I know that. But I’ve not had this trouble before that I recall.
When I want to do something other than domestic things, my mind goes fuzzy, unwilling to open, to wonder, to create. No space for it. That’s how it feels.
Might just be the way things are. Or, there may be a solution? Not sure. Open to ideas.
