a moment for someone who doesn't live in the moment

Thinking about simple pleasures lately.

I'm at a point in my life where I don't really know where I'm going. I'm already in the twilight years of my twenties (sounds rather dramatic, doesn't it?). I have a family established. I have many deeds and experiences under my belt of which I feel proud, not-so-proud, or frightened-in-retrospect. But I still have that sense of being unmoored, a bit directionless, that has been with me ever since I was a small child.

These days I'm in the habit of rescuing spiders--excepting the poisonous ones, which I regretfully execute under a quadruple layer of paper towels because I can't bear to look. Sometimes when I go to set a (live) spider down outdoors in what seems to be a safer spot, the spider flails its legs out for a long moment, trying to get its bearings back. And I always see myself there, living my entire life in the spirit of that long moment of flailing about.

I don't know that I will ever stop looking around in every direction, trying to orient myself. I'm not convinced anymore that it's a bad way to be, either. Probably I will never have any worldly ambition other than the ambition to know all I can about the things that interest me, or simply to be a good person.* Probably I will never stop being acutely aware of the precise shape and size of the horrors of the world, either. But in a way these drives (or lack thereof) are freeing. I'm unlikely to achieve worldly success, yes, but I'm also not very attracted to the trappings of success to begin with (often I am pretty much disgusted by them).

Why settle for being a king or queen when you could be a farmer, historian, explorer, or monk? (Or the mastermind behind a political rebellion, perhaps?)

I watch politics and money because I know that politicians and fat cats are dangerous--but they're also gross. It offends every freedom-n-truth-loving, independent bone in my body to watch people caper and smarm about, lying their own pants off, selling themselves like over-priced prostitutes or waiters--for what, ultimately? Money and power, of course, and staying on top rather than falling into the pit o' losers, but--again--for what? To eat a little more caviar than before, tour some obscure island chains, buy a bigger house, pay poorer people for sexual services, send junior to Yale? So junior can eat a little more caviar? Please. There's a lot of research backing me up on this, but it doesn't take a scientist to recognize that hardly anybody who has these things is actually made happy by them.

It's easy to get fooled, though. Mere stuff--above and beyond what's necessary for basic comfort and survival--generally does not improve our quality of life.... but we are told it will, day in and day out. This is the dark end to which our system leads us. Under our present way of life, we live by what kills us. We feed ourselves memes that distort our appetites and keep us always wanting.

I am not immune, either, although my natural resistance grows whenever I turn off the box and unplug. (Almost everyone's does, doesn't it?)

When I was fifteen or sixteen I used to take a bus route daily that involved stopping by an advertising and business center in a haute little city (I swear, every time I go back to visit, I feel like a yokel). There were lots of wannabe bigshot agents and such. One woman made friends with me over a period of weeks, then invited me up into one of those glass towers to take some photos and talk about some possible modeling work. I don't know if it was a scam or "real"--I have never seen myself straight in the mirror. I remember I had a sassy retort when she asked why not: "Because I don't want to be involved in a business that robs people of their self-esteem and sells it back to them." (Her face turned cold and that was the end of our sitting together on the bus.) 

What I said was some cliche I'd picked up somewhere--I am sure you've heard it before. I felt strong and brave saying those words to the modeling agent. The truth was that I only ever owned one beauty magazine and it was hidden under my mattress because my mother had told me it would only hurt me and I shouldn't ever buy one and I disobeyed anyways and she was right--it was a barb in my side every day, the cause of skipped meals and stomach pains, early morning awakenings to do my hair like the magazine told me, bizarre calisthenics, hours on the treadmill, abs held tightly in all day, sexy shoes, assorted baubles, mangled fun-house images of what men and women wanted and should be.

I think it's natural to want to decorate ourselves. Little boys and girls alike love to wear bracelets and paint their skin with brilliant colors (I am truly sorry, dear men, that this drive apparently gets beaten out of you over the years through social disapproval and punishment). But if you watch little children play at this, you will see they love to share and help and to experience these decorations as something that draws them together. They are made joyful and close through the process of adornment. Contrast that with first-world teenagers, who usually groom alone and are often made to feel depressed, powerless, and self-conscious about the whole business.

Anyhow. I guess what I logged on to say tonight is that my natural tendencies plus the journey I've been on have made me just sort of openly pensive lately (I mean pensive in a present, mindful way--as opposed to rumination). I've finally accepted that I'm not interested in reaching for the brass ring, so I've also accepted I shan't be hearing any applause and "GOOD GIRL!" when I [don't] grab ahold of it.

So...?

So, what next?

I don't know all of what's next. But it occurs to me frequently lately that if you're not striving for approval or prizes or power-over... then, really, all you've got to enjoy are the simple pleasures of living.

I am not really a live-in-the-moment sort of person. DFW said in an interview, "I'd like to be the sort of person who can enjoy things at the time, instead of having to go back in my head and enjoy them." I get that, on an utmost level. But he was talking about not really enjoying the accolades he received after Infinite Jest, about worrying he'd become a douche if he were to allow himself that enjoyment, then admitting he didn't feel that tempted to enjoy it anyways. Me neither. But what about a different kind of enjoyment? What about just being, and being okay with that? That, I think I might be able to swing.

So.

A feeling that warms me lately is the one I get from staying up after the rest of my family is asleep and being the one to lock up the house at night.

I feel like I'm their guardian, doing something important and protective (which I am, and it is). I love hearing my partner's sleep sounds. The children look peaceful and calm, and they smile in their sleep if I rearrange their blankets or kiss them on the forehead. I refill my oldest boy's water cup that he keeps near his bed and set him out a morning snack. I lock the doors and windows. I love feeling of the carpet under my feet as I move down the hallway, and hearing the soft thrum of the appliances, normally covered up with play and conversation. I love how my old cat--a veteran of the woods--climbs onto my lap and purrs in his rattly, old way.

I have struggled with how to replace the almost zen-like peace that I lost when my God perished under the weight of reality.  At this time of night--doing something so simple as locking up the house and taking joy in the action--something in me wants to say: 

"This is our faith. This is the faith of the church. We are proud to profess it."

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*An atheist with few worldly ambitions! That doesn't augur well, does it? Indeed, we have probably both seen people die of this condition, but I do not intend to go that way (although the club has a tempting list of benefits, doesn't it?).