I’ve been asking myself what I want from this site, and why. It’s remained up, despite weeks and then months of negligence, patiently awaiting… what? A crisis? A calling? I want to write again but insecurity demands a reason. Tragic, perhaps, but true.
So I’ve wondered, sometimes, whether I ought just commit to a focus, pick a practice, perhaps launch one of those commercially-transparent “The ‘Blank’ Projects” with an eye toward developing a name, a readership, a book deal, a well-defined owned space in the collective conceptual consciousness, and immediately fast-forward into disillusion. So no, not that.
I miss participating, though. I miss the ongoing meditative conversation with a certain literary world, one more relaxed and lovely than more newer online technologies provide. I miss the richness.
What prompted this post was a discussion about this very medium, and about the twin tines of the technology it represents–the ways in which our tools separate and connect us both, and the ways in which they can both expand our attention globally while pulling it from an as-important focus on he more immediat local. In theory I love both, and want all; in reality I must confess I use the former to escape the latter, and vice versa.
Escape aside, though, I realize it’s a gift, in some ways, and a luxury, to have the option and the tension of both. When my mundane day-to-day feels lacking, or dull and without redemption, I love being able to turn to some larger sphere, to offer up the crumbs of a place-based experiencing to the mosaic of a larger incomprehensible whole. And when that whole–when the clamoring voices and human babblings–feels too much like some chaotic abstract, I love in turn being able to sink into the texture of the present moment, and to bring the larger context deep within.
Perhaps the tracing of those sine waves is enough; perhaps the cycling of those patterns, and the ability to honor and dance between them, is worth more than I’d admit myself to allow. I keep wanting finalities and givens, absolutes and answers, when the reality–and the future–lies is what is open and undetermined and flowing. (I don’t know why I feel the need to keep reminding myself. Shouldn’t once be enough?)
This is too abstract, though. The truth is, I am listening to a symphony of rain at midnight. The truth is, you are reading this at some other hour, in some other storm. THe truth is that depth is found in neither one nor the other, but in the holding, and the wholing, of both.
What do I want from this? Conversation. Connection. Committment. A return.