seclusion

I find myself turning down invitations.

Not all, but some significant

and I am grasping for what that means in the now expanded time alone,

I've been reading more, it makes me feel intelligent, growing,

more relaxed and mindful.  I sneak away from conversations to do it.

I return to conversations with questions, with purpose, with compassion.

Not always, there is a certain amount of intentional distance,  an unmeasured amount, a balancing act in play.  The solitude produces guilt.  Its the same guilt that comes up in the neglect of my chores.  Its the passive aggressive resistance, the immaturity of not being able to act in accordance with my own desires, because I am still trying to name them, dissect them, re-imagine them, negotiate them.

I finished a book today that was exciting, surprisingly playful for such a dark topic (the financial collapse) and it made me want to make stories out of dull reality. Draw caricatures from the complex but infuse the drawing with enough life to inspire a deeper look.  

I started another book (Freedom North) and it was dense and tangled, and it made me stop reading after 22 pages, but I was also aggravated because I felt left out from the topic, not by the book but by society.  Like where had these dense tangles been before?  Why was it I was only hearing of these instances now (when of course they had been here the whole time) and who were the gatekeepers to this knowledge?

I find myself feisty with desire, energy, readiness to engage  and yet  I seclude at every opportunity... every instance where it could be too real.  I think I am waiting to be rescued.

Victoria described the visual she had of a lock clicking into place when I described a recent dream I had had to her.

I think I am waiting for the click.