Today was a milestone for me, signing off from a listserv about writing that I have followed and often engaged in for thirty years. In my last post, I said I was on the porch, waiting for the taxi. Today the taxi came. More than getting in a taxi, it was like packing up and moving from a home I had grown to love.
I am still concerned with writing instruction, but I am more focused in my life with working for inner balance while living alone. I am thinking of Zen—the art of not being elsewhere. I think unease is mostly culturally inscribed, certainly part of the capitalist project, almost like a ghoul eating part of our insides, making us yearn to consume to fill that unfillable space. Buying one thing, which feels good, makes us want to buy more, recreate that sense of having something new, like a present. We are early in our lives programmed to want more. It’s difficult to deprogram ourselves from wanting more, from wanting to be elsewhere, kind of like kicking drinking. It is not easy to find peace in being alone.
I am thinking about the paintings I have been hanging in my house. I wait for the paintings to find places for themselves, a preferred practice to hanging them right away. I place them on the floor beneath the wall space we might agree on. After a few days, I know whether it’s the right space.