I keep writing the same post and then not publishing it.
Every time I write it, it just doesn’t feel right, and so I put something else up instead. Something light and fluffy, because light and fluffy is easy and fun and no one judges you for it.
Not that I’ve written what I think are particularly ‘judge worthy’ posts, it’s just that anything that makes a person think can be taken out of context.
My lack of computer is not helping. Typing on an iPhone or the iPad is just a little depressing. I miss the open expanse of my big screen. This way feels like I’m typing in a cluttered room. I can’t see anything properly and nothing comes out the way I want it too.
But all the thoughts are driving me nuts and so I’m just writing them down. All the things I’ve been thinking, like:
Life is annoying me.
Not majorly, it’s just that I’ve had so many opportunities present themselves lately, and then just slip out of my grasp at the last moment. It’s disheartening and exhausting. And if makes me not want to strive for anything, or do or be anything other than the mundane every day. Washing never disappoints; it’s always there and you know what to expect.
I’m frustrated that we get so little ‘world news’ and that we are so self absorbed as a nation. The plane crash in the Ukraine was awful. But so was the one in Taiwan that got about 2 minutes air play. The situation in the Middle East is shocking at the moment. Palestinians and Israelis are dying every day because they can’t get along. And in parts of Iraq they are kicking people out of their towns if they refuse to convert to Islam. Mosul is now completely void of Christians because it was either convert, leave or die. Not a great situation either way.
My own self absorption:
I get all indignant about a hundred things every day, and yet I don’t do anything to make a change. A few dollars here or there, but that’s it. I’m too busy complaining about my missed opportunities, my broken computer, and then dealing with my own, not-insignificant heart issues. Some introspective deep thinking in the form or a brain detox has revealed I’m more than a little broken.
And that revelation in turn feels selfish because it’s like my blessed, white, middle-class, upbringing was somehow deficient.
I’m supposed to be making some kind of decisions about what to do once Ava’s at school and I can’t think of anything, because I can only think of all the things.
And my feelings of inadequacy seem to get in the way of it all, and I think I maybe couldn’t do anything great anyway. And it’s not even about doing something great, but just something meaningful.
Taking all the passion and frustration of suffering, and finding worth and value in people of all nationalities, and being part of the answer to all the questions I’m so quick to ask, but don’t really understand.
Wondering about life and considering its brevity:
Our whisper of life should account for something. We should make the place better.
And then I think about the story of a family who only just lost their six year old daughter. They moved across oceans to help others and paid such a steep price.
At what cost does helping humanity come?
And does that make it any less worth it?
Until I think of the Palestinian refugees who’ve never known peace, and the Ukrainian residents who had firey hail rain down on them, and the families in Mosul, Iraq packing their bags to walk away from everything.
Light shines in the darkness when those who have it share it. When those who own it go and take it where it’s needed.
And each day as I retrain my brain to realise that I actually have worth, and that inadequacy is a lie, I see more clearly that so does everyone else. No less than me, and no greater either.
But possibly just as clueless.
Which then leads me back to my first frustration; the seeming lack of possibilities. The frustration and yet welcome relief of the monotony of life. The self loathing at my selfishness, yet the gentle understanding that I cannot be all things to all people.
So instead I write blog posts. On a tiny iPhone screen, where autocorrect changes every other word and my blessedness is marked by the fact that my complaints are superficial.
I work on those heart issues, claiming my value, and searching for it in others. Embracing monotony whilst still searching for meaning.
A mixed up, contradiction of a life that still believes it can make a difference whilst embracing the insignificant.
Hoping, maybe, that one day, it will be different.