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April 29, 2015: Introspection

Sometimes when my more introspective nature gets the better of me, I go inward, into what is a dark space. Some people have inner spaces that are filled with light. My inner space is variable. Sometimes its pitch black, sometimes it’s a shade of dull gray, and other times it’s filled with near blinding white light.

Today it was, for a brief while, inky black. At such times I can’t get any work done. This morning was a good example. I was feeling overwhelmed by all that I’ve not been getting done. The list of such things includes dispatches, work on my three books (Material Matters, If Wishes were Horses, and

Lessons Learned). I’ve also been wanting to outline the exercises in the centered riding II book. It is not the fact that I have the work to do, but rather that it seems to me that my doing all this work is going to be for naught.

I’ve been wondering – why am I doing all this? Am I merely spinning my wheels? Is my hard work going to pay off in the form of publications, and perhaps some form of payment? These are not trivial questions. Rather, they are very important questions. In today’s society (this line being stolen from every bad composition essay ever written) worth is measured by one’s monetary status and if a writer, by public acclaim.

So, I spent a part of my morning sorting out the huge pile of drafts that litter my workspace. All I could think as I was doing this was that I am a bad writer, and as such, have wasted considerable time, time that might have been better spent, say, perhaps, doing humanitarian-type endeavors, such as relief work in Nepal. Worse than writing is not writing – which is what I have been doing as of late. This has gotten me to thinking that I, a thumb twittler, have the world’s most flexible, and strongest thumbs. In fact, most would be glad to have my thumbs, our neighbor who blew off his right hand thumb in a firecracker accident, included.

Inward I continued to retreat, to the basement like darkness of my innermost self. I collapsed on our bed, and pulled three pillows over my eyes. I then attempted escape my despair, by attempting to sleep. Of course, in such instances, this does not work. So I laid there, and continued to dwell on my failings, of which there are a seeming multitude.

Pete, who was working downstairs, eventually came upstairs. All I could say was that his being so far behind on posting dispatches was a part of the reason for my malaise. This was all I could say because I don’t think he quite understands why I as of late, feel so down. You see, he has a bright and sunny interior. Perhaps, once in a great while, a sun crosses its path, causing it to be overcast. This is rare, in fact so rare that I can only recount one instance in his life when this has occurred – this being the death of his father, which coincidently was twenty years ago today.

Pete got me up and going – I was really not that far gone. I joined him for lunch, and then we went outside and worked with the horses. I did not resume writing.

This is the first dispatch that I’ve written in nearly a month. I am going to have to go backwards, and recount important events. I am going to do this. What’s now a motivator is the image of my insides being bright and sunny. For some reason, I really like this particular visualization. This is because it’s one of hope. Yes, I must do this. Otherwise, I will give in to the inertia of my spirit.

Next: 113. 4/30/15: Heart and Soul

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