the unbearable lightness of being

Today I am shifting some energy in my writing. In particular, I lay in bed this morning feeling torn between writing for myself and writing an entry for this blog. It's really not a big deal to put together some words here. What's getting to me, what I'm waking up to is the fact that I put a bit of weight or pressure on myself to produce. In fact, I see how this is a weight I put on myself in different areas of my life: being a therapist and 'fixing' the problems of my clients; being a friend and making sure I'm supportive; being a family member and ensuring that I'm present. I've alluded to this habit of mine in other entries, being more attuned to what I perceive others would like from me rather than feeling my own impulses. In my journalling this morning I wrote something like: "I want to march to the beat of my own drum but I struggle to quiet the symphony orchestra in the background."

No wish to make this a pity party. I feel more matter-of-fact around it than dramatic. I've noticed in my life I've been both drawn to and repelled by people who unself-consciously do their own thing, even when the world around them recoils or frets. I had a boyfriend when I was a teenager, my first love. He had a generosity and a creativity about his spirit that flabberghasted me. At the same time, he looked to be following his own rhythm without being tied up in knots about offending others. He drew me in while he scared me. Now 20-some years later, I know more about 'projections' and other sophisticated psychological constructs to recognize that I preferred to see my own maverick nature embodied by him than experienced through me -- too threatening.

Writing is scary. Living authentically without self-consciousness ironically requires me to look more intensely at my sense of ego and self; what or whom am I protecting when I angle so many of my thoughts, actions, words, and behaviours at being accepted? Or being special?

In the shower yesterday morning, (what is it about showers?) I sunk to my knees with a realization that I have been working my ass off trying to succeed at a game which cannot be won and trying to figure out a puzzle that cannot be solved. This is a crazy, crazy world. The extent that I (and others) go to in hopes of creating meaning or success in an ultimately illusory world is beyond absurd; it's mad. And that I create a professional life around attempting to help people feel 'normal' in a reality based on illusion is the ultimate cosmic comic strip. While I sense freedom in letting go of the insanity, I also experience terror. If the 'I-me-Martha' project is not working towards building meaning, not struggling to succeed, not rearranging myself for belonging, what am I doing?

I didn't mean to write all this. I just meant to write that I'm fine and all is well. I intended to inform anyone who reads this blog that I'm shifting some of my creative writing to a more personal exploration rather than this public expose. Alas, the words are on the screen now. Who would I being trying to protect by deleting them? I will keep this blog happening, likely with more photos and facts than personal diatribes. If only to let you know that I'm still here and they haven't come to take me away,... yet.

A few notes on the photos in the way of an update: there is a picture of my papa from last weekend. I got his permission to take a photo of him sucking on his hookah (aka - "volumetric incentive spirometer") in the hospital after open-heart surgery (new valve plus bypass). Sucking on the hookah strikes me as a metaphor for how I stay asleep in this dreamy reality - but there I go again. There's a picture of me going for a swim a couple weeks ago in the run off of Champney Falls. Also, Becky and I got out for our first paddle of the year this past Memorial Day. We came across a moose in the shallows. The other images I liked are those of waves, stillness, and life, all mixed up in with the sharpness of the paddle's blade.