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Saturday, January 18, 2014.  No other person can be there except me.  Just me.  The center of my life is a spot within which only I reside.  Everyone has such a spot.  It’s like a reserved parking place we never leave until our body dies.

Sometimes I don’t have enough words to talk about this place.  Sometimes I have too many.  Occasionally I feel I have the right ones.  I really like those times when words favor me and I struggle at those times when they don’t.

Sometimes words crowd me and I don’t have room to breathe and only a little bit of space within which I can think.  Think reflectively, I mean.  Thoughts that fly over, by, around me like a jet plane at full speed are too close by me and not one bit helpful as I try to find out who I am at any given moment. 

What do I want?  What do I need?  How did I get THIS way at THIS time in THIS place?  What does it all mean and how much of my experience of being alive am I actually sharing with other human beings?

After all, I can’t be THAT original.  Or am I?

What is this loneliness I feel and why does it keep coming back to me?

Am I living my life rightly?  How do I know — one way or the other?  What could I, should I have done differently?  Is differently required of me now?  What does THAT mean?  What would differently look life, or have looked like at any past moment of my life?

How much of who I am and how I am in my life has ever been under my control?  How can I tell what was and is “just destiny” versus opportunities for choosing how all of this plays itself out?

How do my destinies interplay and interconnect with the destinies of other people in this world?  How did they play out with those who were once here in a body and now are gone?  (Where did they go, anyway, and what is their reality like now?)

If I could find my way back, way back, to how I was before I even knew what a feeling or an emotion even WAS — would I turn around and go there?  What is the use, the purpose of FEELING so damn much without having a clue how to rein in or CHANGE those feelings?  Why do I seem forced to ride them out as they take on MY life as if it were their own?

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In the end I always arrive at the same conclusion:  I am here on assignment.  One assignment after another one. 

“Stay out of the minefields.  Stay out of the swamps.  You can choose where in the current you want to be but you cannot change the current or avoid it or escape it.”

Everything happens for a reason.  There are lessons to be learned.

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I believe there will come a time I will understand “all of this” but it will not be in this lifetime and it will not be without the help of souls very much advanced in their evolution.  In the meantime this is again a period of my life requiring great patience of myself toward myself.

At the end of my 50+ hour week of caring for baby last night as he left with his daddy I thought, “Now would be a wonderful time to meetup with friends for something fun to do.  Now would be a great time to contact my support network.  Wait!  I have neither one and I have no single clue how to change that fact.”

Roads covered with ice and snow I cannot drive upon.  A blistering cold that rides the wind.  Knowing nobody who has me in mind as a choice to spend a Friday night with.  That’s OK.  It has to be.  I will wait.  I always have the work to do of getting to know myself better.

Does that matter?  What does that even mean?

I return to the warping of the new rigid heddle table loom I bought with the gift money sent to me by my youngest sister.  It has been too many years for me to remember how to do this job with confidence and finesse.  I am careful.  I move slowly through each step consulting books written by experts before me.

I must complete this step the best that I can because once warped the loom can be filled with weft threads of wool I have spun and dyed myself.  I want to make something beautiful.  Something useful.

This is a solitary task that I must do by myself.  Yet this process pleases me.  This kind of work is evidently a consistent part of who I am in this lifetime.

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