Chapter 1: Me
I'm in the middle of something, I think. I don't need this space like I used to, those years when my brain scratched for more. This new iteration of my career is the most challenging I've ever faced by incomparable measures, and it's mostly exciting, and it's extremely engaging, and it's occasionally severely frustrating. But never, anymore, at the end of my day is my brain calling out for more attention. It's spent. And I tell stories all day long now, making them, building them, defending them, canonizing them, and so my quiet me voice that was often my loudest voice is turning inward, I think, and still narrating, beat on and borne back ceaselessly, but it doesn't demand to be noticed, because now I spend my day being noticed plenty.
Also, it's possible, I don't know, is this something one can notice in the moment? or only backward upon reflection? that I'm fulfilled. This work + this life it adds up to enough, maybe. I am busy enough and challenged enough and tired enough. I was always loved enough but that wasn't enough enough. But maybe, I don't know, this is what the absence of needing more looks like.
Chapter 2: Them
I don't want to jinx anything, but this is, so far, the most collectively-emotionally-well-adjusted season of the kids' existence. Everyone seems in a pretty good place. This is not the same as smooth sailing, please note, but how could it be if we are to be boats beat against the current?
Chapter 3: Us
In our family, war in the Middle East is not an abstract faraway thing. And these weeks have been tense. And I am but a big ol' naive peacenik, but I would like everyone to behave themselves now; and also stop seeping their damages into my consciousness.
I was listening to a Radiolab today; it's not online yet or I'd link for you; it was about the self, and what is that - what neighborhood of your brain your self lives in, and how your self changes after a stroke or amnesia, and what is the self chemically, spiritually, figuratively. We are who we tell ourselves we are, the hosts concluded. The only definition of self is the extended narrative we compose and retell.
How is your summer going?