Thoughts Right Now

Sometimes I grieve the life I don’t have, may never have, with a ferocity that surpasses that of the grief I have for things I’ve lost.  Maybe that says more about the relative lightness of what I’ve lost than about the scope of my collective yearning.  I feel it in my marrow though; the lack, the holes, what’s missing, more than I feel what is actual, empirical  And I loathe myself for it, I curse myself for not being more content with what IS.  Eckhart Tolle would shake his head in some mixture of compassion and pity.  Self-help gurus, psychologists and coaches everywhere could list my cognitive and psychological deficiencies.  Treatment plans could be written, my comfort zone stretched, my inner child nurtured.  And still, what is absent would somehow be even more profound than what I have.  And the life I have is nothing to shake a stick at; I’m relatively healthy, I have more than I need to live, I eat organic food, I can afford vitamins and supplements.  I have a horse, I see a doctor whenever I need to, I have a brand-new smart phone.  I took a vacation last month.  I am educated, well-read, well-fed and well-exercised.  I show up for my work on time, I do more than is expected of me.  I love people even though I daily bump up against the sometimes sharp edges of their pathology, both overt and covert.  I stumble upon new interests and immerse myself in new information beyond the point of saturation.  I devour books, magazines, topics, curiosities.  I settle in to the wonder of wonder, and I soak it up and I follow threads of topics to new topics, new discoveries and insights and fascinating, juicy tidbits of information.  And though I feel so utterly alone so much of the time, I recognize that there are more than a handful of folks in my life that adore me, that see the good in me, the intellect in me, the capacity that I have for love.  And I DO love; my brother, my adorable dog, the natural beauty that surrounds me, a good joke.  I am beyond fortunate.  And yet it seems I can only derive fleeting satisfaction from my many privileges and assets.  Maudlin me.  I have such a desire these days to break away from the self-pity with which I have become so accustomed, and to free myself from my own expectations.  And more than ever I realize that I am solely responsible for my own contentment (happiness is the wrong word, the wrong goal).  No drug, no therapist, no achievement will gradually suffuse my life with the purpose and fulfillment I’m sure that I lack.  And at the point of this recognition is both opportunity and despair.  I may be closer than I thought to more richness, more fulfillment, and the tools I need may be right here, quite literally under my nose, hiding somewhere in this vast and cavernous psyche.  And I think this MUST be the work I am supposed to be doing at this point.  I’m developing and laboring a new life, my new life.  And I can only hope it doesn’t take all of the next twenty years to figure out where I wanted to be now.  Hindsight is so cruelly accurate, and nostalgia has a way of dimming angst in retrospect, no matter how vivid and immediate it felt at the time.  Or maybe I’m missing the mark altogether, and THIS is what life IS, this potent and impossible interplay between angst and wonder, nostalgia and privilege, grief and regret, yearning and gratitude.  The journey, the journey, the journey.  Not the destination.