I went on vacation, a real vacation, a few weeks back and hoped I would have time each day to draw and write, post a little here and there. I did spend a little time a few of the days drawing zentangles, but I didn’t want to write. I thought about it a few times, but couldn’t magnetize myself to a screen or a page. I felt reluctant, a kind of hiding, folding into myself. Upon returning to work, I sleepily went about the familiarity of routine, not resenting it so much, only having the ambition to do just what was needed each day. Just enough groceries, just enough time to shower and make the short drive to work, just enough time to flop and watch television. Flop Flop Flop. I resent the television and the mesmerizing way that I allow myself to be glued down, fold in submission to a kind of stimulation that really isn’t feeding me at all, just filling up space in my head, squeezing out the space for other, more important stuff.
The more I thought about my initial motives for writing here, that of accountability, the more shame I felt for yet again making a departure from the ideas that sound so good at one time, but seem to waddle away with decreased verve the longer I allow for reprieve. What do I call that part of me? That subterranean mole of a character with a soft underbelly–curled into a little ball to avoid exposure. From the age of 4 of 5 a favorite solitary play process was to drape sheets and blankets over chairs or tables, the posts of my bed–whatever created a cave or fort-like space–darkened where the space was only mine to see. I could hide out with satisfaction and freedom. Freedom from anyone eye-balling me, having expectations or even praise. I could hide out in stillness for what seemed like hours, doing nothing but exist and revel in a private cocoon. Little moley is a little snail-like, slowly unfurling out of curiosity or necessity, but her favorite way to be is still, unhurried and sleepy. I suppose this part of me beckons restoration, but all too easily lends to a self-indulgent coma of hedonism–a way to turn from the real makings of joy.
It seems like there is another part to draw out there, as the little mole seems like harmless cover for something a little more devious, but she is slippery and I don’t see her very clearly yet. Hopefully she will draw me back in to the fold.