I haven’t written much of anything since I moved out of my beloved and lovely mold apartment. I also canceled paid subscribers renewals here because…same.
Life felt un-weirdly upside down for months, and I’m enjoying settling into a cozy routine again and floating a little higher up Ye Olde Maslow I guess (not “I guess”, I actually very much am), but that’s neither here nor there. The truth is that writing anything period has seemed pretty here nor there. I’m not depressed…perhaps this is some kind of an existential crisis, but I don’t feel crisis-y either.
It’s not only that nothing has been more important than playing a game with Vivi, repotting plants, browsing design books, doing dishes, dealing with observing The Ant Situation, seeing a few clients etc.; it’s also that I’m not interested in working anything out on paper, hearing my own opinion, etc. etc.
Pointless.
Although…
…while lots appears to be “getting done”, pursuing anything with a goal in mind just feels lay-down-right-now boring and unthinkably purposeless and backwards (a point in pointlessness?). A friend mentioned monetizing my content and other truly helpful stuff the other day and I almost died of disinterest just considering his excellent ideas for 3 minutes.
Can I write all this without sounding like a spoiled brat? Or maybe just spoiled? Unlikely. And yet, I promise it’s not that. Or maybe it is but in a good way. But it’s more like I’ve stumbled upon the secret of life while peering under rocks for bugs.
(I know, but sometimes it’s fun to subvert Writing 101 rules).
Someone wrote that Substack is an echo chamber. Actually in some ways, just about everything is an echo chamber.
Ennui? Not exactly.
Because I feel…content. And awe. I feel awe—of leaves, that my daughter seems to grow a yard or so every day, of the hues in the tiles on my kitchen floor, that rope ends fray so beautifully, of the sound of the dryer. It all makes me feel so grateful and wonderful I want to cry. But even writing this seems self-aggrandizing and gratuitous. Like, who cares, Christy?
I just currently feel like staring at my kitchen cabinets and walking my dog and watching potting soil play through my fingers—hmmm….play. Maybe that’s really the only true content. Peace.
Sounds like both poetry and freedom, Christy. Thank you