inklingfair January 24, 11 PM, the first of a series of posts from listening to strangers.
She said:
I am not happy, but I can’t help it. Whether it is the cocktail of my brain chemicals, or my history, or the realities of being a fallen creature, it is my cup to drink. What I am is content, though. I would like to remain that way, to not compare nor care that I don’t measure up in the ways that matter to the world.
I would like my children to be content. I would like them to think for themselves, to make up their own mind about what really matters. In some way I’m relieved this pandemic keeps them home and keeps them from being reminded of what they have and what they don’t. They’ll have to deal with it one day, and I hope they give it weight enough to keep them striving, but not so much as to leave them always wanting more.
I know I’m not doing such a good job of helping them think their own thoughts. I sometimes forget they’re not me. When I yell at them to pick up after themselves, I short circuit their natural desire for order and replace it with the distaste of getting yelled at. I wish I could hold my tongue better.
I would like to waste nothing. I dislike trying on things on top of things, as if they were clothes I won’t be able to easily shed off. I would like to live a small life, with small things. I would like to taste many things but keep nothing. I would like to be present and open, more than I want to be happy.
