Couldn't sleep last night. Dealing with dramas related to traumas,
and the meaning (hence value) of my life. Didn't receive an answer, but sure
got some wonderful insights to supplant in the novel that I'm currently
writing. Finally got to bed at 12:30 which is super late for me since we live
on a farm.
I came downstairs on this overcast January morning. It's
Sunday. Normally, I love to do the Sunday morning breakfast feast. But when I
looked at the counter, I stopped. The counter resembled the remnants of a
trailer park after the passing of an F5 tornado. My life is like this counter,
I thought. A disaster of jumbled dishes with half-eaten, stuck-on, discolored
and smelly leftovers. Yes, it only takes minutes to organize everything into
the dishwasher, wipe the counter tops clean so there is room to prepare
something new and tasty. But another F5 tornado would just come
through again, making another day's disaster of my good intentions.
Then I recalled my late night prayer and its 'results'. What am I
afraid of the most? My family's safety and happiness? Finances? Mortality? What
slapped me upside my head was this: Insignificance. The fear of insignificance
hits me in two ways. First, that I'm downtrodden. Second, (and worse) that I'm
being taken for granted. After all, the dishes were placed there with the
mindset that someone else would deal with it.
That someone else is me. But really; no one put a gun to my head
and demanded that I marry, have a family, and set up a household. I did that
and have no regrets about it. Scratch the notion that I'm downtrodden.
Being taken for granted is another matter. Still, it's my matter.
So rather than play victim and engage in the blame game, I head to the waters that replenish, the outlet that blows off steam, the cathartic Zen breath that sustains me when all else wants to make me crazy. I pray, I cry, and I write.
Do I feel better, you ask? Enough to get in there and clean that
counter top tomorrow morning.
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