What if?

There are days when striving seems absurd; taking refuge in the simple life is the only possible choice. One surrenders to dog walks, naps, or drives in the car with Maria Callas doing all the singing. Yesterday was one of these days. At first it felt like mere contentment: the beauty of wanting nothing. I may even have congratulated myself on being free, on having no need to figure out anything. I was acceptable, just as I was. In the afternoon, a gnawing indication of restlessness caused some regret, for wasting the very best hours of the day. I’d had time to create, my children and grandchildren otherwise occupied, yet there was  nothing to show. Not even a blog.  

Once guilt asserts itself, my childlike pleasure in simply being can vanish in an instant. The merciless critic calls forth the failed adult; the hours of one day become the weeks, months, years that trail behind me, heavy reminders of that which was left undone. Peace in the present and hope for the future are crowded out by the enemy. Despair begins to wear a triumphant grin and I turn my back on my dreams, convinced that I am too old to realize the life I was born to live.

Now I’m embarrassed by what I have written here for others to read. I have never liked to display my shadow side.  Beauty thrills me, and light is a glorious prospect. Perhaps I am sure that the dark self riding in tandem with the transcendant dancer will surely be rejected — as she was in childhood.  The doubts, fears,  angers, and shy withdrawals  were not acceptable — while the graceful prettiness of the dancing child was embraced and praised. I learned, early on, that to be pleasing was to be loved. I think if I could fully love a less than pleasing me, then she would be free to show me something wonderful.


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