I’m on a Rock to nowhere. Come on inside
It’s strange. No it’s not. Well, okay it is and it isn’t.
You know, the way we deal with time in our lives.
The way we process experience and the way in which we ebb and flow in and out of conscious living.
These past two and a bit months have been a series of one intense life altering bubble after another. Me in places I don’t live in and for the most part, interacting with people I’ve never met and, with all likelihood, will never see again.
Discoveries, tumbling one after another, about the much greater potentials in my artistic and personal lives, about the way in which I think I want theatre in my life, about the work I dream of, the way it really should be.
The way it really should be.
But it’s an ideal dream isn’t it, nothing more than that. Something to strive for in the grandest of Sisyphian ways. I cannot live in perpetual intensive mode but rather need to extract the lessons and tactics that make it so rewarding and, with good spirit and diminishing judgement, integrate it into the reality that is my life.
That was last night.
This is today.
I’m sitting on the edge of a rocky island at the edge of a small cottage community in Georgian Bay. I just came back from yoga class at the main dock where I was pleasantly surprised at my new strength and ability in the real world land of physical excercise. I’m sitting here on the screened in porch with a beer and a bowl full of brightly coloured summer foods and, I just did something I never thought I would do: I just found middle sister’s pack of cigarettes. Still with cigarettes. I groaned. I realised the danger – me, alone, at the cottage, no one would ever know, I’d never have to say – and against the urge to leave them, knowing that leaving them was a challenge I assumed I would fail, I found myself pushing through and walking straight to the kitchen and soaking them thoroughly (sorry sister) and, then to be sure, squashing them further in the pack. Couldn’t smoke’m now if I tried.
I’m feeling a little limbo-y, a little lost in my own created purgatory. For so long now it seems the attitude was, don’t worry about processing these crazy epic experiences you’re having rather enjoy them and be as fully in them as you can be in each moment. But now I’m out. Now it’s over and it’s time to process. Time to make good. Except here I am back in the most familiar of all places. Split Rock. Go Home. It doesn’t get more Purgatorial than this. A place where, try as they may, changes make no real impact on this preCambrian rock, on this deep blue water, on me and my little 9.9 horsepower outboard plastic seated feet up lazy on the side.
Nothing changes… until I drown cigarettes and I see that perhaps I cannot truly change who I am but I can most definitely evolve. I just have to remember to give time time, to allow me breath, to be gentler to my soul, confident with my desires, awake to my potentials.
But for now, I’ll go for a swim. I’ll sit on a rock and maybe have a think, or not.