Wednesday, March 01, 2006

write, write, write

The advice we who wish to write are given is always the same - write, write, write. Every day make a time to write.

This blog serves the purpose of providing me with a responsibility to write every day. And, so, I am able to follow the directions of those who write for a living. I have a place to publish on a regular basis.

Some wonder about blogging in terms of just how public one's writing becomes when published on line even if that publication reaches only a very few folks. I have been wondering about this public part of me, of late. I self describe as an 'introvert' on the Kiersey-Bates Personality sorter. I know for sure that I re-energize by myself, alone, in my private space and that I need to be in that private space a good portion of every day .

In order to have that space, I have managed to create with the help of my Australian partner, a graham of all trades, a lovely office in the back corner of our home, a space full of windows that looks out over a private fig tree wilderness, a space I share with fig birds, butcher birds, noisy minors, storm birds, kookaburras, and a tawny frogmouth or two. At night the bats and the possum take over, but in the daytime when I sit here typing I am surrounded by peaceful greenery and blue skies ..except, of course, on days like today, when the cloud cover allows no blue to leak through.

The grey and white clouds, however, simply enhance the depth of greenery surrounding my space.

And yet, in the midst of the perfect harmony of the natural world of our little corner of Queensland, I am full of anxiety.

I'm not sure if these feelings begin in my childhood of 60 years ago with my being abandoned by my parents or if this unease stems from a sense of homelessness. For sure, I know that home is in the heart and mind, not in the physical space that one fills in a physical sense.

When I am comfortable, satisfied with my life, home is where ever I happen to be at the moment. That may be in a movie theatre while I am engrossed in the pretend lives of film strs who are engrosed in being someone other than themselves.

That may be in the midst of a walk on Mt. Coot-tha, another green space that lifts my spirits. When I finally hit the top of the hill in my almost daily woalks, I am home! The kilometre + walk downhill and back to the parking lot is almost always a satisfied saunter during which I feel comfortable, at home, ready to face the challenges of the day.

But in the midst of my choosing to be alone, I can also manifest the most horrible anxiety about not having a place, about missing my country whose international and national policies I decry. It isn't the government I miss. It is the warmth of the smile from a friend, the comfort of being called by name, the joy of being recognized as a fellow citizen in a comfort zone.

I suppose the conclusion of this commentary circles around the fact that like the turtle, we carry our homes on our backs, in the back of our brain in some mass of grey matter where we feel complete and satisfied. And one would think that a person of my age and experience would have, by now, managed to manifest that sense of satisfaction no matter where my body rests. One would think that!