Posted by: scintillatingspeck | December 29, 2015

This is work.

I’m in my house, listening to the clock ticking, as if it could measure the length and breadth of life.  I’m alone.  The strange warmth of this late December has been replaced by sleet and ice.  I’m trying to shake off the ragged remnants of Insomnia that has been plaguing me for weeks, along with her compatriot Melancholia.  I might have a foothold, now, after finally getting a solid stretch of sleep last night.

There are things I want to get done, you know.  I have a book I’m writing.  I have a house I’m rearranging, organizing, trying to make it feel more like home, even though I’ve lived here for four years.  Even though I don’t want to be here.  I have a child I’m mothering, although she is elsewhere for ten days, and her absence is stark; I’ve told myself now is the time to sort through all her books, organize all the art and craft supplies, plan field trips, finish setting up her new room (we just transferred all her stuff into the guest room/Tom’s former bedroom).  There’s no lack of stuff I want to accomplish.

Still, my heart has conspired to turn my attention away from the tangible work, away from anything I can present as Results.  Heart doesn’t care how I come across to others right now, or if I visibly accomplish anything.  She’s quietly insistent that I slow everything down and deal with my emotional and spiritual being.  Maybe she invited Insomnia to the table, to force me to confront stuff.  Maybe she invited the literal ache pervading my head and limbs.  She says it can’t wait.

This is work.  Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Work is love made visible.”  That’s why I’m writing this, making it visible, to myself.  It’s arduous, real, and hurts.  Most of it happens in the dark, inside me.

I work to understand more thoroughly, on a heart-level, and that means dismantling illusions as best I can.  The illusions circle around and around, flapping and making a great ruckus, like a bunch of uppity roosters, trying to make their case for existence.  Sometimes they get mean.  They don’t want to end up as soup.

I hold onto the commitments I’ve made to see things through.
I’m not going to give up.




  1. disarming.

    • Are you disarmed? Or am I disarming myself? I’m glad to put any internal weapons down.

  2. Hey, it’s great that you got a good rest. I bet you’re noticing how much better you feel today. 🙂 That hike on new year’s day sounds inviting, and a chance to be with what should turn out to be some interesting people.
    I’ve always had these swings where I get all busy and energetic interspersed with periods of inactivity. My brother and father were like that as well. Sometimes when I hit a slump it can be difficult getting back into getting things done beyond immediate necessities.
    Externally enforced discipline worked well for me in my work (that’s a reason I liked your writing partner arrangement). Those queens had to get shipped, and on time every time. Back in the old honey production days in Texas during the 70’s we had the entire winter off for months. It could get brutal, forcing myself to get out there in late February and get to work again.
    These days I’m about as free as a bird but I still would like to accomplish some things. I want to write a beekeeping memoir. And I want to write a how-to book on outdoor cannabis cultivation in Hawaii, since we’re on the cusp of total legalization out here and I’m already medically licensed to grow my own anyway. That novel’s just a dream so far. If I’d saved all my writing up til now I’m sure I’d have enough for a book. That’s one good reason to keep an online blog going. I also wish I could have printed up my stuff as I put it out there.
    Then there’s the landscaping. Ugh, but the results would be nice to see.
    Happy holidays!

    • Yes, Randle, I feel MUCH better today, although still discombobulated, as described. And I’m looking forward to a variety of interactive events, including seeing a friend tonight, continuing with writing times, and First Night in Northampton, in addition to the New Year’s Day hike.

      I would love to read a beekeeping memoir by you!

      Happy holidays to you as well. ❤

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