CLEARING SPACE

I got up this morning desperate to DO something about the overwhelm and sadness I've been feeling.  I feel like I'm drowning in the "clutter" of life -- can't figure out what's important to fight for, what's to be ignored, or what's to be discarded.  Can't figure out when my world started to tilt toward unrecognizable...

And I've decided it wasn't all of a sudden.  It wasn't November 8, 2016 and it wasn't 6 months ago or 3 days ago. The conditions for shock waves slowly take hold in unseen spaces as we blindly live lives we think we know, are sure of, will always be.  We think we've done the work of feminism, of democracy, of equality, of community-building, of relationships, of personal growth, of spiritual awakening, of health, of contentment...then suddenly the tectonic plates that have been inexorably shifting out of sight reach the point of no return and an earthquake erupts.  If you survive, there's a big mess to clean up.

So I got up this morning, headed to my office and attacked my bookshelf:  I'm cleaning up messes.  I've done a drastic clearing out of old books and made many book donations over the past couple of years.  But I cling to some that have special meaning and fond memories, some that I think 'someday' I'll read, some that seem like good references for future projects or topics of interest.

Today I let a huge number of my beloved books go.  Why hang on to old memories, when those times are gone?  Why assume I'll eventually read a book I never pick up to read?  Why assume I'll suddenly tackle a project I never prioritize?  Why continue to maintain a shelf of memories, forgotten dreams, and good intentions?  Even the well-read books seemed to sit there inert and dead in a way, no longer held in my hands, fingers giddily flipping pages of an engrossing story, hoping it never ends.  Everything ends.  Then the closed book taunts me to try to recreate that first blush of joy that can never be regained by merely keeping it around, its cover a reminder of the past.  Into the donation box.  Letting go of what was and what I thought might be there again.

I know many people my age who are doing the downsizing dance; selling their big homes and gardens and responsibilities and moving to smaller houses, apartments, condos.  They are neck deep in clearing out decades of "clutter" -- some junk and some beloved.  I admire their ability to cry through the hard parts and still to let things go.  I remain in my house, which I love, and  I wander through my gardens, still finding pleasure there.  I don't want to leave here yet.  Still, it's time to let so much of what has accumulated here go.  There's really no need for most of what's jammed on closet shelves, infrequently or never used, shuttered in the dark.  There's no need to try to predict what I might need someday. Predictions are a fool's errand.  Do I need it now?  No?  Gone.

Hardest for me is ridding the house of me.  I'm the family documentarian.  I keep bins of photographs and the computer hard drive full of even more; old journals, clippings of published pieces, poetry, essays, writing workshop first drafts; blog books I've created from these postings; mementos; cards I've received from loved ones with handwritten notes -- but, why hang onto to all that?  I think for me it is the fear of being forgotten.  If those things go away, so will I.  No one will know who I was or what was important to me or what brought me joy or sorrow, how I moved in the world, interpreting it and acting upon it.

How egotistical does that sound?  The quest for immortality?  The reality, of course, is that within three generations we are forgotten; my great-grandchildren won't have a clue who I was, nor care all that much.  One day all that stuff will be for someone else to discard, without a thought.  Well, maybe I'll leave it to them to do.  I'm not ready, today, to be disappeared.

But I am ready to let go of the things that no longer serve me: the physical "stuff" that grows moldy with neglect; the psychic "stuff" that haunts the mind; the precious "stuff" that breaks the heart.  There's a big mess to clean up.

At least, that's the view from here...©

Photo Credit:  www.pixabay.com

IN THE MINORITY

I'm definitely in the minority it seems.

This whole legalization of marijuana thing is taking off in state after state, my own being one of them.  I'm not opposed.  It's crazy how this substance has been vilified and criminalized for far too long, given some of its benefits and relative safety, compared say, to alcohol  -- or tobacco, which is deadly.  While both remain hugely destructive forces in people's lives, alcohol is still as socially-acceptable as breathing.  (Tobacco less so as people see the damage done, not to only the worst offenders, but eventually to almost everyone who smokes.)  I'm the weird one at most social gatherings for eschewing alcohol.  And now also for not indulging in the pot craze.

I get that it is relatively safe and not too addictive or destructive. (C'mon...it's NOT a gateway drug unless one is already predisposed to wanting to try as many drugs as possible, which begs the question: "What's that all about?")  When I say, "not too addictive or destructive" I'm not talking about a physical addiction, which is disproven, but my judgement does start to show.  I know plenty of people who need their daily dose to feel good about their lives or good in the moment -- not unlike a nightly glass or two or three of wine, perhaps.   And I know plenty of people who seem to be, shall we say, less motivated to ambition or clear thinking when occasionally imbibing or particularly when making their usage a regular habit.  "Pot-head" has its genesis in some reality.  Others self-assess that they handle it fine.

One thing I hear is that getting high gives one a "broader psychic perspective" and stimulates creativity.  OK.  I wonder at what point the creativity really kicks in since it seems all those good ideas fade with the high, but maybe I'm wrong....or just recalling all those nights of brilliant insight in the 70s and having not much to show for it the next day.  Maybe I'd be a better writer if I got high?  Don't know.  Don't care.

I also find it annoying, actually,  how the Boomer generation has embraced this legalization with enthusiastic giggly-ness.  There is still a modicum of disbelief that the stuff is sold in mini-mall storefronts; with senior discount days an added bonus!  For some there seems to be an "I'm being naughty" smirk about going there to score their drug.  Although as it becomes more commonplace I also notice it's done with no more excitement than stopping off for a gallon of milk.  It is amazing to realize the wide variety of types and dosages available depending on desired effect.  I visited a store with friends once and was shocked at the variety of products available -- from pot in bags, to pot in pills, to pot in gummy bears and suckers and cookies, and lotions, and potions, and rubs... Overwhelming, really, but the pot shop people are knowledgable and helpful -- like your neighborhood pharmacist.  Still, I walked out empty-handed.

Even with some guidance, however, each person responds uniquely to the strain or dose.  What's mellow for some is a horror for others.  What is a "low dose" for some puts others on their butts in a chair, unable to speak coherently.  It's a trial and error process until one finds their sweet spot, I guess.

In the illegal heyday of my 20's (in the 70's), we'd pass one or two joints around, not having any idea what we were actually smoking, and tried to see if we'd get high.  We did, but it was short-lived and mostly just caused the infamous munchies and lots of silliness.  Today, one hit can put you on your ass.  It's much more pure and much more potent.  I found this out one New Year's Eve a few years ago, right after it became legal here.  I wanted to see what all the fuss what about; why some of my friends and some in my immediate and extended family were so enamored.  I took two hits of what was supposed to be a very mild low dosage: my head started to spin, I felt sick and scared and went to bed for 4 hours.  It was awful!!!  Never again.  And I was so pissed I'd screwed up my "sobriety" for that, having quit alcohol years beforehand.  I'm not doing AA or NA or anything, so I didn't have to confess to anyone, but I was mad at myself, and vowed that I would never use intoxicants of any kind again.  I haven't.  This body is a Temple; a substance-free zone.

Which I am told can make me a wee bit judge-y.  I know it has its place -- as an anti-nausea remedy for folks on chemotherapy; as a sleep aid instead of sleeping pills; some pain relief for aches and pains (with the "high" being a bonus side-effect for those who enjoy that feeling).  But it seems to me most people just use it to get high; to alter reality.   And  I mostly try to steer clear of anyone who is obviously high, or drunk for that matter.  It makes them hard to talk to, to relate with, and they just appear ridiculous to those not mutually indulging.

And I worry that I am sounding just like an old-time-y Prohibitionist.  I'm not a prude, honestly.  But I do find that I'm not as open to things in the "vice" category as I used to be.  Upon reflection, I see now that my wilder days and the activities I engaged in were to escape from stresses, to cover for insecurity, to fit in, to feel fun or sexy or "crazy" in a way that was not really me, but that I thought should be....all the usual reasons for dulling one's senses.  I've worked damned hard on my personal and spiritual growth to the point that I now don't need or want those things in my life.  Being clear-eyed, clear-headed, and open-hearted is trippy enough in this crazy world.

At least, that's the view from here....©


DISCLAIMER/CONFESSION:  I have used CBD oil/creme (the non-intoxicating part of the plant) to alleviate pain in my knee and migraine headache. They even sell it at local pharmacies now.  It contains trace amounts of THC, but I don't feel any effect from that, while I do get some pain relief, which is great.  So there's that.

Also, for the uninitiated, here's a link to a menu at a local pot shop.  Sheesh!  https://snohomish-menu.budhut.net