Monday, February 4, 2013

On My Smallthink Quest: Letting go of Big Meaning

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Hollow, 2011 {SOLD}
The thing I did best in school was writing about art. Theory and analysis were such delicious brain food to me, and a great constructive critique was the whole point and high point of studio classes. When you mix that with a cosmology that is essentially Jungian, too many mythology books, and a mind that specializes in over-thinking, you get me. This package comes with anxiety, depression, and the tendency to color everything with HUGE archetypal meaning.

I've been known to spiral into musing about Demeter's mystery cults as applied to my own experience as a mother while cutting the crusts off Molly's fucking peanut butter sandwiches. I assign people and events in my life symbolic and mystical meaning. I'm never going to stop that; It's how my thoughts process. But I was doing some epic-magical thinking yesterday, and gently reminded myself that while I'm meta-thinking my moments' significance, I am not living them. Life is moments strung like beads, threads of course to other strings, but a life is moments threaded together.

Where am I, in my moments? In another spacetime, in myth, in a story or a song or memories or mourning or a future washed in whatever unhappy emotion that is really only a Now. I want to be present in my moments, for the cutting of bread to be a simple act in a mother's kitchen. A tiny act of indulgence for a beloved girl.

I'm not going to berate myself for losing shining moments or for being an analytic-minded emotional being. I'm not going to make an announcement that my future will be a blissful mindful enlightenment.

I'm just going to practice moments.

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