Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.

--Leonard Cohen

I've going through a period of intense reflection. I'm feeling calmer, like what will be will be. No responsibility to become something, to make something of myself. I'm just realizing that when I rejected the old push for a career and impressive (to the outside) lifestyle I was only rejecting the form, not the expectation. I accepted it, only diverting it into a prettier (to me) form, that of the respected thinker, the true artist, the intuitive writer. But with expectations comes pressure and with pressure comes paralysis. I think I have made a mistake in thinking of myself as a writer in the first place. Doing so makes it about something other than the content itself... having to fulfill that label, live up to it. Prove it. Maintain it. Profit from it.

Forget your perfect offering.

I feel wide open this morning. Or I did, for a moment, when the sky was vermillion and bright orange and clear pink clouds. I witnessed the world with absolute clarity, like unstuffing my nose and being able to smell again. I'm closing back up now. It's familiar and plain again. I think, I think, I have been depressed all my life. Not a lie-in-bed-crying depressed, just a floating beneath the surface depressed. It's a place where you can remember all you have to be thankful for but still not feel the benediction. I so badly want to move beyond that. Everything is about that now, even when I'm not consciously thinking about it.

I hate to say it, but I don't really know how to be around people and still do that. I'm trying to think of one person I can feel completely and utterly safe and unselfconscious around, and I can't. Except for my children, and I worry that it's because they are still so much a part of me, and that when they are older and we have separated in spirit, I may not feel completely safe around them either. And although I can say that I feel absolute safety with them now, I can't say that I know that they necessarily feel the same about me. How can it feel safe to be yelled at? To be given a talking-to? The world is so broken. Or maybe it is just adults that are broken, and children in the process of being broken. At the same time, I know there is something that is not broken. It was there a few minutes ago. It's somdwhere. Now, I just need to figure out how to stop getting in its way and let it in, and hold onto it.