Humor intrudes here and there like the designated driver you pretty much ignore while out partying and only fully appreciate the next day after you've been delivered home and have had a chance to sleep off the majority of your impairment.
In retrospect I am grateful for the automatic insertion of that steady blade of sarcasm in both my attitude as well as in my writing and can appreciate the full value of owning such a skeptical and hardened edge once all the whining has been sorted through and put to rest. Nothing puts more of a damper on a pity party than a solid blast of comic cynicism. It can be a real buzz kill.
However, closing each post on an optimistic note or peppering the odd paragraph with comedic allusions does not a resolution make. There still remains a fair amount of slogging and purging to do, and I am going to do it come hell or high water....she says.
But for those of you who have expressed concern, don't worry. I am far from suicidal and 'hopelessness' is not part of my vocabulary or considered an acceptable disposition. And for those who have lamented the missing pulse of consistent and irrepressibly, light-hearted musings, welcome to the real me. I'll still make you feel good, but you might have to do more than just show up to earn it.
Having denied myself permission to publicly exhibit any signs of frailty, fear, frustration or expression of the f***-yous for most of my life, I have decided it is time to lift the ban (at least in terms of literary expression) and am now sifting through the fractured bits of a life designed to please everyone but myself in order to discover just who myself is. For the time being at least, Pollyanna has left the building. Deal with it.
Earlier today I got a phone call from my beautiful mother who, after reading the blog, expressed concern over my untenable relationship with that damned elliptical saying, "Boy! You must be really frustrated!" Of course, we laughed, but then the conversation turned to one about the pros and cons of honesty and disclosure.
I brought up the personally cathartic exercise of challenging myself to withhold nothing (at least insofar as it does not intentionally expose or wound others) as I write my insides out, and she brought up the valid point that most people are very uncomfortable reading about the raw, un-retouched, dark or ugly sides of others because it might remind them of their own and not everyone is willing or able to look at themselves in that way. Plus, it can be a real downer. She also warned me not to fall into the trap of chronic negativity where suddenly nothing is without a problem and grousing becomes the proprietary filter through which all communications are sifted.
She was perfectly correct in her observations and comments, and I fully agree with them. But I'm not writing for fun and profit here, which means I have no obligation to produce epistles of happy talk or to cater to the fickle preferences of an audience who would choose to engage life like an egg on teflon; keeping the charred, over-cooked or unappetizing bits from sticking at all costs.
In addition to making light and sense of a life that has more living behind it than it does in front of it, there is the aspect of accountability and conscientious examination that is of absolute necessity in crafting the full recital. To leave those parts out would be like playing the Heart and Soul piano duet with one person or one hand. You might still be able to pick out the basic tune but the full melodic resonance would be missing. It simply would not be as good or a fair representation of the actual song.
Nothing happens by chance or without purpose. Nothing. Even the ostensibly tragic things. Once we can wrap our minds around that concept, we are closer to peace and the cynosure of all the truth in the universe than any marathon meditation or ring around the Rosary beads could ever produce. And that is not to dismiss the real and powerful results in these methods and rituals, which are valid and necessary.
What I am referring to is a root-level acceptance of whatever we are faced with or without in life and that level of acceptance is hard to gain without endeavoring to establish a prayerful connection with the transcendent. Meditation and prayer are certainly solid corridors that can lead one towards that kind of acceptance and subsequent peace.
But what is equally as crucial is a willingness to look at and be accountable for the elements within us that are not terribly pleasant or appealing. We all know that these prayerful forms of passive union make us feel better, calmer, more in sync with the world and the universe. That is a given because in addition to the metaphysical implications, there is also the physiological exchange of energy and a measurable shift within the body. It makes us feel centered and rested. But so does a good night's sleep.
The point being that these practices and rituals are just that: practices and rituals. They have no value unless you can take whatever peace and feelings of sacred unity you've assimilated and bring them with you onto the crowed subway train at rush hour or to the inconsiderate neighbor who keeps backing his car over your newly seeded lawn when he leaves for work every morning or to your wife who nags you and is unhappy or your boss who expects too much and pays too little or to your friends or relatives who are addicts or alcoholics or otherwise ill or a nuisance.
In other words, you have to be willing and able to face and to live graciously, authentically, respectfully and discerningly in and among the dark and disturbing factions of all life; including those within yourself.
In many ways I am at that point right now and am allowing the acid rain of sub-par emotional intelligence to wash over me with the obvious hope that clarity will eventually be reached. But in the meantime, I am sodden with regret over the sheer volume of lamentable revelations that are cresting on the surface of this existential puddle as it expands around my feet and am applying all the concentration I can muster towards the process of bailing lest I drown in a pool of unexamined ignorance.
Perhaps the fact that I am trying to flesh out the dysfunction at this advanced stage of the mortal game might provide an impetus for other mid-lifers to do likewise and not to mechanically devolve into a crystallized version of their surface qualities.
You see a lot of that in homes for the elderly. The complainers become withered fleshpots of carping and griping; the authoritarians are forever reaming out the staff and attempting to reorganize Bingo night; and the indifferent are, well, indifferent and have lapsed into a coma of complacency that requires nothing from them but compliance, which they readily abide by. There is no hint of striving toward understanding the other in life anymore let alone one's self. It is very depressing.
I'd rather question myself, my life, my beliefs and the world now while I'm still active and viable and can make the necessary changes and apply the accumulated wisdom rather than wait until I am dependent upon someone else to get me dressed and mash my food.
The fact that all this questioning usually leads to a few bouts with the blues or periods of despondency, feelings of detachment or disassociation from the norm, known, or familiar and even all-out anger is all part of the process. The status quo is no longer acceptable. I'll do whatever it takes.
And, yes. I do wish I had gotten to this juncture much earlier than now, but it wasn't time. I wasn't ready. Even among the boomer generation, I'm probably one of the less progressive ones. A late boomer, I suppose.
My dad always told me I had the classic curse of always being "a day late and a dollar short."
I think my day has come.
Anybody got a dollar?
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