It’s often easier to write in a small room. Your mind will find it easier to engage with itself in mappable surroundings; you can take it in, conceive of it, in a glance. Yet a big empty space filled with stuff, a library let’s say, can give a feeling of intimate space. And a smallish, empty room might give off echoey empty vibes that could distract. Any mental activity requires a conceptual space and an actual, physical space. They interact. Six hundred years ago Meister Eckart wrote, “compassion means justice.” 20c poet, potter, and teacher M.C. Richards, noted: ”Acceptance is part of love. It is devotion to the whole.” By freeing ourselves from evaluation we can attend to and nurture perception. We can then participate in the centering activity that is the cosmos. We immerse ourselves in the spaciousness of creation. Roominess is a centering space filled with love and compassion.
Work is a fraught concept for me. As the world around us grinds to a halt during this pandemic, two things keep circling in my mind. Dying and working. Neither of which I want to do. Neither of which should be connected either in my mind or in reality. On one hand, I want to honor the willingness to embrace difficult tasks, to grow through challenges and contribute to society. On the other, I want to fight for what we tend to consider the "luxuries" of the body and mind, which are so worth cultivating, protecting, honoring and which can't be achieved through work as it now exists for most people. Our lives shouldn't depend on our willingness to alienate ourselves from our Self. Any job or career value must align with the higher values of freedom, safety, and security. Work and dying must be antithetical to each other. The fact that this needs parsing is an abomination. Work and life - how do we bring them into alignment. That is the question.
I'm trying to even think about going natural. Going grey, looking natural. Not fake. No makeup. the natural makeup look. Comfortable in and out. Not trying to look young, not giving up and looking old. This is what women think about, you know. Trying to think it is harder than you think. Trying to even imagine yourself *as* your self. When are you yourself? When have you been natural? Sure, as a child, but after that. When? How did it look when you were natural? When you were naturally yourself? Did you even notice it? If you noticed it, were you feeling, in that moment, natural, feeling like yourself, feeling good about yourself as you were noticing that? How do you capture that feeling without breaking the spell? Is being yourself an art form? The artifice of natural feelings. The art of selving the self. The creative self is really just the self unmoored. The self, shelved.
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