Wishing I understood why I suffer so about and through certain work projects.
I can only do what I do, and then accept my failings and imperfections and try harder next time. I love the work, I learn from it. I research and write and rewrite and edit. It’s what I do, a life shaped by morning meditations, writing, shared intimacy, conversation, daily tasks around the house, dogs and doggy games, dreams when I sleep, then more meditation, prayer and writing.Work is a necessity, a joy, a habit.
But when I’m not working, I’m crushed by fears and imperfections, doubts, hatred of the tedium, resentful of the time spent, certain I am not meant to do this. Then I sit down, give a wide-open sigh and begin working again and it is fine.
Talked to someone yesterday about archetypes. He says he is an alchemist. The housemate says she is a healer. (All lower case.) My friend D says she is a hunter, an Artemis. I think I have many cross-cutting, cross-dressing, cross -current archetypes and that I am a Hermit for now. A woman in a cave, a woman reading oracles, a woman burning on a pillar in the desert. Ascetic, solitary, inward, happiest alone, building an inner hermitage filled with birds’ nests, clouds, treetops, eaves and chimneys. If I had a beard, you could forage in it.
The world is porous.
We interpenetrate one another’s realities, blunder into one another’s hearts.
The housemate is standing on the beach looking at a stormy black sea. She says it is so cold the sea is spitting ice.
The small dog keeps gnawing her front paws so I bandage them, The work waiting for me feels impossible, exhausting, hopeless, undoable. In the unweeded flowerbed spears of paper narcissi, green spears of leaf and pointy stem, are coming up through black earth. The sun is hot on my shoulders and head but I cannot get warm.
— Rosmarie Waldrop, from “Conversation 2” in Curves to the Apple