Authors Note: Forgive me, this is going to be hilariously self-indulgent, but I need to walk myself through this process periodically to get my head straight. I share it in the off chance that, perhaps, you go through similar struggles and might pick up something useful.
There’s one predictable paradox in my life, and that’s if I feel like I don’t have enough time, it means I’m not doing enough. And I’ve been feeling like I don’t have enough time.
You’d be right to guess this isn’t the first time I’ve come to this realization, and I’ve learned the only way out is action – not a furious, flailing action but focused, mindful, plodding, sacrifice-ladened action. (more…)
Look, we’re all on a freight train to the grave, and I must admit that lately I’ve had the sensation that I’m in one of the forward cars. The bottom line is that after a legit lifetime of zero physical ailments, this past year smacked me around like a butterfly in a cyclone. A kidney thing, a skin/nerve thing and a personal loss thing (which didn’t help) and most recently an Achilles tendon thing which is really giving me the business. The machine seems to be grinding to a halt, I don’t like it. Whether it’s a delusion or not, I firmly believe there’s always something to do to improve a situation.
My father died Saturday (December 30), as do all fathers, as do all sons. Ubiquity doesn’t erase uniqueness – not of feelings, nor of the individuals caught in the gristmill of existence. Mortality, the thought of it and the fact of it, is either the source of dread or the source of inspiration. And that can change moment to moment; particularly if I don’t keep an eye on the manic hobgoblin I call my subconscious.
It’s been awhile since I’ve journaled, as usual that has more to do with me letting life get on top of me than lack of nonsense to spew – my sabbatical ended, a new job took its place, a grand-niece was born, I got a kidney stone (I’m still waiting to give birth to), we had a family reunion, and on a surface level I enjoyed every minute of it. On a deeper level, as happens from time to time, I’ve had the feeling of experiencing life rather than living it. Losing touch with my goals, and reverting instead to habit. I have good habits, and I’ve got bad habits – the good ones take care of themselves, but my bad habits tend to fall under the umbrella of laziness. 
Fumbling to find the key to the Master lock protecting the treasures in my storage cage, I wondered why it took so long to find it. I have a ridiculous number of keys on this ring, ridiculous because I don’t know what half of them fit.
Thirteen days ago I began a new sabbatical, then promptly lost track of why I took sabbatical to begin with – a loved one in pain, a political choice akin to hiring a florist to do your plumbing and some self-pity that things in general weren’t working out exactly the way I wanted. Being distracted isn’t anything new for me, it’s the reason I put so much stock in personal goals, which is why these thirteen days won’t become thirteen months. I thought I’d share my slate of personal initiatives with you, dear reader, both as a way to think out loud, and to refine what I’m really hoping to accomplish. 
Happy 4th of July Y’all! Clearly I’ve been less than dedicated to this journal, always a clear indication that I’ve been drifting, or more to the point that I didn’t want to admit my drifting. I’ll always be honest with you here, which from time to time means fessing up to less than stellar behavior. Of course, the huge gaps in my journal entries point to the bad habit of not wanting to admit what a slacker I’ve been. I’ve lamented in the past that I’d prefer to be a heroin addict or alcoholic, to simply being lazy if for no other reason than it would make me seem more tortured (and would be a neat explanation for these fallow phases that recur in my life). 
When Prince died I was writing an IT proposal to get a Federal contract. If you’d have told me that either of those things (Prince dying at 57, me leaving commercial art for filthy lucre) when “Purple Rain” came out – I would have punched you. Making accommodations to self-sufficiency were still years off, and I had years of struggle and failure ahead of me, I lived in a bubble of artistic delusion. I’m writing today to say, I wasn’t all wrong.