Right now I am up to one of my chief pleasures: researching books that are mentioned in the current books I am reading. I’ve found some the best books that way; however, I’m sure the library peoples are not too happy with me in that I always, and I mean always, have a stack of books on hold there. The Sandy library is so tiny that it rarely contains within its walls anything I want to read. I have to order outside of it, but thankfully it’s attached to quite a large number of other libraries so there’s generally somebody who has what I’m looking for. I also have a library card for another county, the county with the city of Portland in it, and Portland has the penultimate library in this area. Unfortunately, since I’m currently without a car during the days, I never get there. Oh well. It helps to know it’s there if I want it.
I’ve been struggling, mildly, with a slight depression over the last few days. Part of it is hormonal (ahem), but another part is simply life, and trying to figure out what to do with mine. My comfort is that it’s your everyday, garden-variety depression – what I’ve come to call one of my ‘normal sadnesses’ – and thus is nothing to worry about. Sadnesses brought on by mundane pressures kick specialty sadnesses brought on by specific circumstances right square in the ass. Hai-yah! Take THAT, mo-fo circumstantial blues! So I really am comforted by them. Also, they serve as great catalysts for renewed effort in finding insight and inspiration toward next steps.
I think I’ve decided the funeral services occupation is out. I just can’t reconcile my convictions with the idea of it, and this has thrown me for a winker because I was kind of banking on it, more than I realized. Now I’m back to the eternal question: What the hell do I do now? I’ve got my book, another eternal question, but thousands (if not millions, sigh) of people write books, and even if they’re lucky enough to get published, they have to keep writing and getting published in order to squeak out a living. J.K. Rowling and Company are rare and scattered exceptions to the rule. I know that between the unpublished and the mega-sellers there is a mighty horde of working minions – authors we’ve never heard of but who are able to live on the proceeds of their books. If I had energy, this is the category I would aspire to, but I’m finding myself distressingly lackadaisical.
One problem might be that I’m immersed in the journals of a (now dead) 80 year old woman. As you can imagine, by that age, she wasn’t doing much. The problem is, she was doing more than I am, and I’m half the age she was. She’s probably still doing more than I am, even though she’s dead. When a major highlight of the week is watching American Idol, there’s something wrong. Oh yeah, now I remember what I wanted to say about that. At the end of her life, at 82 years old, after having been lauded as a writer and loved as a person – after giving lectures and seeing books written about her and on and on – after having had an amazingly full and rewarding life/career – this remarkably introspective and soul-nourishing woman still felt she hadn’t gotten the recognition she deserved, needed, wanted. She was driven, even in her old age, even when infirm. The question I’m asking myself is, Are we ever truly happy? Not even happy, but contented? I want to be… but I find it difficult myself to remain that way. I wonder if people in third world cultures, where the question is survival, not some twisted idea of success, struggle in the same way. Surely not. But I don’t know… and I’ve been pondering this for awhile. What do you think? Is it possible, over one’s life, to reach a state of contentment? I would really like to think so. Love! xo