I've been thinking about this post for a while now. This month is all about character, and I have been examining mine. Not an altogether bad thing to do. I already wrote about procrastination, but I don't think I really am much of a procrastinator. When I stall, it's usually because I am unsure of what I think has to be the "right" answer, whatever that might mean to me. If the situation seems insurmountable enough, I will embrace my personal version of flight (as in fight or flight).
I run away a lot
It happened, supposedly, randomly enough. I was on the NaBloPoMo site and scrolled down to see some of the blogs that had made it to the front page. Not sure how they get there but I started reading one in particular that for no reason I can think of, really, made me click the ... continue link.
I don't believe in coincidences
I read more and suddenly found myself with that holy crap they just spoke into my life feeling, a cross between sinking reality and shocked discovery that you have been "found out". If I could remember the blog I would link here for you, but it was one of those momentary things and I moved on to something else, though the lightbulb still burns very brightly in the not so recessed parts of my mind.
I can try to re-cap, and see if this rings true for you. The author of the post was writing about how much she loves order, and, in particular, a specific container store that she frequents. See, in this store, there is a place for everything and everything is in its place. She feels contented in this store, like she can relax, solve problems, conquer anything. The containers all rest happily and she feels energized by the plastic emoted karma.
She was reiterating this perfect scenario to her husband when he quietly interrupted her to say these profound words:
you love order on the outside because you don't know how to order your inside
If I could have been physically propelled from my chair at that precise moment, I would have, ala Garth in Wayne's World, whenever he saw foxy lady. It was that powerful to me.
Yesterday, as I was reading a new novel, the same thought was presented. Not just one time, but as a recurring theme, not exactly matching mine, but the nuances were too similar to escape. I have a lot to ponder these days, it would seem.
I caught the madness from Martin. He had come home from the war in Germany obsessed with the need for calm and order, and by the time we had dragged ourselves halfway around the world to that untidy subcontinent I was cleaning compulsively, drowning confusion in soapy water, purging discontent with bleach and abrasive cleansers ... I didn't know how to (mend my insides), but I knew how to clean. Denial is the first refuge of the frightened, and it *is* possible to distract oneself by scrubbing, organizing and covering smells of curry and dung with disinfectant. It works - for a while.