writing for self-discovery

I’ve been thinking a lot about life lately. None of us asked for it, but after nine months, give or take, we’re thrust naked into this world, helpless. Absolutely and utterly helpless. We would not survive without someone to tend to our every need. What is that, a parasite? No, a parasite feeds on its host. I looked it up. It’s a word I’d never heard. Human babies or any infants that cannot care for themselves right out of the gate are called altricial young. Those that pop out already self-sufficient are precocial young. (Is that where precocious comes from?)

Those were the second and third new words I learned today. The first was Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar. That’s a mouthful.

Not that any of that matters, but I do love words, especially when they’re strung together poetically. Those brilliant writers who construct sentences in unique ways to make me feel like I’m right there are heroes to me. It’s the difference between writing, He was angry, as a statement, or, His face turned a shade redder, his fists clenched, and every word that spewed out was laced with venom. The first rendition is boring. In the second, I can see this mad soul and feel his fury.

See how easily I squirrel down a rabbit hole? I was talking about life, right?

For two years, mine has been synonymous with hard, physical work. I hadn’t realized until now how desperately I needed that distraction. Back-breaking labor brought healing magic as the trauma-angst of Covid slowly seeped out of my nervous system.

Building a house required skills I didn’t have. Designing it was easy. Second nature. But making the vision become reality with lumber and screws? Way beyond my pay grade! But I had help, patient teachers, and a few not-so-patient ones. I learned a lot. The end product is far from perfect, but it’s mine. And the sense of accomplishment? Off the charts.

As of this week, the inside is finished and fully furnished. It’s a home that so completely reflects me that a mini-explosion of joy hits me every time I walk through the door. I made every choice. The main living area is neutral with bursts of color in the rugs and accessories. Windows face east, south, and west with sweeping views of meadows and marshlands. Light and bright, it vibrates happy energy.

This past year, I added a garage, deck, entryway, and a 14’ x 22’ loft room with a moody vibe. Browns and grays provide a backdrop for warm bronze, terra cotta, and gold. It’s a private place where reading, writing, and solid, eight-hour sleeping, flourish.

I need both spaces, the upbeat and the shadows. In my loft I feel grounded, nurtured, safe. In the livingroom/kitchen I’m bouyant, lighter-than-air.

And now, I suddenly have free time. There are no undone tasks looming like goblins in my psyche. I’m free to live.

It’s no wonder, then, that I’ve been thinking about life – where it’s taken me, what I’ve learned, and how I want to spend the years I have left. I say years, but there are no guarantees. That knowledge drives my thoughts as well. It’s almost as though building the house was a brief detour from my trajectory. I put writing on hold. Travel on hold. Even thinking was suspended.

And now, I’m feeling my way back. The only thing I’m sure of is my delight in this place. My sense of well-being here. The scent of fresh-cut hay. The sounds of my cousin’s tractor pulling the baler leaving giant tootsie-roll mounds in the field. Raucous honking of Canadian geese flying south.

I’m in no rush to do anything. Maybe it’s time to rest, to revel in this peace, to enjoy my surroundings with no pressing urge to explore beyond my front yard. How unlike me. Could I have achieved contentment? Maybe this is Nirvana – neither suffering nor desire, just peace, tranquility, joy, enlightenment…hmmm…enlightenment… Okay, not quite there yet, but I can see it from here!