Sparse Complexity

I woke up in a mood yesterday and rather than going into the garden to eat worms, I decided that I really just deserved a bit of abject self-indulgence. I’m similar to most women in my needs, but not in how I get them met. I don’t get facials, or my nails done, or even shop for clothes. I go to the bookstore.

So, there I was, sitting on the floor thumbing through all the new books I can’t afford, drinking my tea and writing furiously in my notebook so that everyone would think I was a writer, and I realized just how many books there are that clearly explain why I am a complete failure as a human being. Maybe it was just my mood but that day, there seemed to be an awful lot of very eminent authors who confirmed that I would never amount to a hill of beans (which my brother always suspected) unless I read and applied the many life lessons I found between their pages. Worm eating became seductively attractive when it occurred to me that I could never realize my full potential if I didn’t add at least "10 ways to be a better person" to my daily to-do list.

Apparently, if you follow some simple instructions you can become a REALLY useful member of the universe. These instructions (many books, same message) involve careful excavation of the buried authentic self, tuning in to the pain of others, and writing daily affirmations of beauty and relevance in a journal. In other words, "turn up, tune in, write on. Seems like an awful lot of work for a serene expression and I couldn’t help thinking that we have maybe become just a tad self-absorbed. My "acid test" was trying to imagine my Mum hanging over her Monday washing mangle in a cloud of steam, wondering if she really was "authentic" or not.

Anyway, putting my cynicism aside, I did the first lesson and my personal inventory came up like this. I am flesh and blood and bone and synapses and all the crap that goes with it. I get hurt badly and in most cases can apply just the right amount of searing retribution. I am able to tolerate bereavement and birth, abundance and scarcity, cripples and athletes, comedians and bores. I shoplifted when I was 8. I have a healthy dose of primal jealousy, I can have tempers worth selling tickets for, have been blessed with the two great gifts of sarcasm AND perfect timing, and I absolutely loath my family during my period.

The problem was, I couldn’t find anything wrong with that. I didn’t conclude that I was substandard or abnormal. Well, maybe a bit abnormal but no more than the next guy. I did realize though that I am far too lazy to do the work involved to change anything, and right there, on that bookstore floor, I had a little tiny epiphany.

I decided that I would no longer give in to the myth that I need to be a bigger person and continue to grow. I decided that being small is OK with me. I would probably keep a journal, but mine would be full of politically incorrect insights. I would try to laugh at other people at least once a day and stop myself from being politically correct when other people don’t damn deserve it. I would freely scream at my spouse when he is being himself, and lock the kids in the garage when I damn well please. I would continue to flip off bad drivers and shamelessly listen to the Doors. I would spend less time giving a damn and more time learning from kids who seem to do life right.

And I would always remember the words of the Bard. "Enough of this crap, lighten up already".

© Sue Blattner 2001