Maintenance

Maintenance... I am plagued by a lack thereof. It's not my forte and anyone who knows me could tell you that. I suffer from a severe lack of motivation in nearly all categories of expected daily human maintenance. If only I'd signed up for the military earlier in my life, but by the time I realized I needed to learn some self-discipline it was too late to enlist. I've regretted that many times over the better part of the last twenty-five years. But then again maybe the military would have destroyed the essence of who I am?
     I excel at joy... and frolicking... and avoidance of all things mundane but necessary.
    Today, for instance, I "should" be doing some dishes, vacuuming the spent flower blossoms that have blown from the deck into the living room, cleaning that bathroom, paying those bills, finishing fixing the skimmer on the pool... The list, sadly, goes on well beyond that and the list has been growing, in earnest, for well over thirty years. It's positively dumbfounding how long I can procrastinate on the aforesaid and all the ancillary duties that everyone else apparently manages to fit into their lives. But how, then, do they ever get to be who they are? Is who they are really reliant upon the accomplishment of changing bed sheets and pulling weeds?
    My self-appraisal, currently, is surprisingly tied to my scores at computer games such as Bejeweled, Farkle, and Family Feud. I was thinking about this earlier today when I could not step away from my laptop until I'd won "just one more" game of Hearts. I spent seventy-two minutes trying to stop. If my diuretic hadn't been working so well I would still be locked in a battle with Mr. West, North, and East (North is the worst; I'm convinced he cheats by telling West and East what he has in his hand so that they will know exactly how and when to stick me with the Queen). How can I permit myself to be so absurdly irresponsible?
    Forever self-critiquing: I should be embarrassed, but most unfortunately I am not.
    I am, however, very disappointed in myself for letting my blogging be so sporadic. My writing is one of the very few things I am certain I am supposed to do in order to be a fulfilled me. My last post (was it March of this year?) left me looking like a scene from "Looking For Mr. Goodbar" and, though there is that aspect to some of my weeks, there is just so much more going on here.
    Well, there is more but there is also less. I live a soothingly calm and deliberate rhythm akin to less than a waltz, less even than a lullaby: a rhythm sometimes so slow that you might not detect a beat for days at a time. And I'm happy in it. I'm happy to be drifting along masquerading as an insignificant shred of goose down, undirected, unaccomplished, enjoying the ride with no need for choosing my journey's end. I would rather be mired in moments, like this one, where I am sliding from my keyboard to the wall of windows onto my deck. Through them I watch the water churning up under mottled grey skies chopped with less-grey and sometimes-white clouds and patches of almost blue breaks. There is enough wind to make the whitecaps roll into waves out on the open bay. Some of them occasionally reach the shore of the flat green peninsula that juts out for five hundred feet or so into the bay. Their impact throws salty sprays into the air, and then rains down onto the patchy grasses, making the gulls waddle back and forth in search of a better spot to watch.

     Isn't this enough to do? Isn't this enough?

    Convention would tell us it isn't: not if I want my lights to stay on. And that's where I find my confusion. I cannot help but think repeatedly upon that story about Jesus and the woman who stopped at his feet to listen to his stories while the other woman was rushing around trying to make him a decent dinner and setting a decent table. She was frustrated with that lazy b-yatch at Jesus' feet... but that lazy b-yatch is me... and she's the one that Jesus thought was the better for it. Still, we have to be realistic don't we, because nobody is going to make it through the day if somebody isn't making a meal. We're all gonners if no one brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. We cannot all be sitting around watching the waves break on the shore. It is the mundane but necessary stuff that ensures survival. Art, creativity, and playfulness are luxuries, aren't they? Is anyone going to pay me to do the little that I do? My bank account will tell you the answer.
     It is obvious to me that I have temporarily lost my place. My entire life I have prided myself on functioning at my highest and best use and I've always been fully cognizant that I'm a supporter, a cheerleader, a lover and an artist who paints with words. I'm the left side to a right, the "better half" of a whole, the veritable wind beneath the wings of birds who died or have flown the nest. I'm grease in need of some squeaky wheels. In their absence I'm just hanging out and calmly, peacefully, happily, slip-sliding away as I await my next opportunity to serve.
     Something deep within me knows this is where I need to be. I do not understand that. I try but I don't. How can I be so entirely complacent watching the unpainted windowsill rot? Why aren't I bothered by twenty-four years of unopened boxes in my basement? The question nags at me, but less-so than the answer. Somehow I belong where I am, doing what I am - and am not - doing.
    To my credit I did create a nice little women's group this summer. I invited some local gals who I barely knew but who had instantaneously impressed something within me. We've met and kept a weekly date for more than a month. We talk. It's nothing more than a meeting of minds. Yet it has been absolutely marvelous for each and every one of us. Somehow, out of the clear blue, I sensed a need and created a group that it turned out each of us were craving. Last night as we said goodbye to Jill we were all surprised to discover how much we were going to miss her presence among us. She's headed back to China. We will see her again next summer. It is amazing after only four three-hour chats how truly connected we feel. I did this and I am proud of it. As I pulled into my driveway after last night's gathering I patted myself on the back and applauded my decision and action. It brings me enormous jubilation to think my gut moved me to do something so simple and small and yet so splendid. It's the sort of reason I am still here on this planet. I know it.

I feel pretty certain that the Universe is smiling at me today. I just wish it would send someone to clean the toilet, return that letter from the IRS, and deposit some cash into my checking account.

    Maintenance: mundane... but necessary. The trick has always been in finding a balance.