A Rain of Frogs

A smile infused his face as he considered the subtle irony of the painting he had just hung overtop of the sofa.

It was subtle. So subtle most people wouldn’t get it, he suspected. That made the smile broader. Let them not get it. It’d be his own inside joke.

The painting was a wide canvas, painted brown. The artist had incorporated some interesting (and yes, subtle) textures into the canvas, there were matted out circles where the surface changed from the tactility of leather to that of suede. And it was predominantly brown. And red.

He’d likely never have considered purchasing a brown and red painting before he had seen this one. Well, that might be a lie. He’d consider anything, but the colors certainly asserted themselves on the rest of the neutrals in the room, warming the space and giving a visual break from the monotony of greys and earthtones that were his norm.

An abstract red sofa on a brown background. The paining was almost ridiculously simplistic. But that was part of its appeal. An organic, alive feeling pervaded it. But that alone wasn’t responsible for his smile. In fact, the painting by itself couldn’t be responsible for the delicious irony that appealed to him so much. Even the single nine letter word pressed into the canvas wasn’t responsible, though it was the catalyst.

It was dependent on where it was hung. And he had hung it where it belonged. He nodded and read the word to himself one last time before turning and leaving the room.

Übercouch.

When one is wound up emotionally, in either a positive or negative manner, mindfulness becomes increasingly difficult. For someone like me, who is rarely focused to begin with, mindfulness goes right out the window.

It is interesting that in addition to a lack of mindfulness, I also tend to find inspiration in times of stress. It is important that one be aware of sources of inspiration. It’s a limited coin, and will not wait for you to finish the task at hand. It is timely and specific.

I am under the most stress of my life right now, I have never been more stressed. And its not just stress from one quarter of my life (work, or family, or whatever) but all of them, simultaneously. I am in a nearly constant state of anxiety and alertness. Its wearying. Like having the lights in one’s mind constantly turned on. It gets to the point where even the inspiration, which is generally a positive experience, becomes a source of stress. It is virtually impossible for me to channel stress into constructive creative endeavors right now (due to the aforementioned lack of mindfulness) but I am trying.

Interestingly, I am not generally in a dark place through all this stress. I remain generally happy, generally optimistic. A lot of that is circumstantial – specifically, for the first time in my memory I see options, I’ve gained an understanding that life doesn’t have to be as it’s been. And that comes from a new understanding of choice.

Choice grants power, but it also demands responsibility. I have always been of the opinion that one is responsible for the choices one makes – I’ve believed this so strongly that I’ve actually recently been accused of having an overdeveloped sense of accountability. I balked at that, when it was first introduced. Of course I am responsible for every decision I’ve ever made in my life, and the consequences of those decisions.

But then it was explained to me that while I am responsible for the decisions I make, I am not necessarily responsible for the environment in which those decisions are made. When I finally understood what that meant, it was an epiphany. I would like to say I was suddenly released from the the weight of responsibility, but I can’t. Old habits die hard.

What I am doing is paying much more attention the environment in which I am now making decisions . It’s lead me to some startling places. I am conscious of repeating past pattterns of behaviour which have left me feeling unfulfilled and worthless in the past. I am, in fact, mindful of the decisions I am now making. Mindful of the ramifications of such decisions. Mindful of the decision-making environment.

The net result of which is that despite all this stress, this anxiety, I am possibly in a happier, more optimistic place than I’ve ever been. And that was like being suddenly released from the weight of other people’s expectations that I’ve been carrying most of my life.

I barely heard her until she was just a few steps behind me. I had been sitting at the edge of the silo, my feet dangling over the lengthening shadows of the treetops below. She slipped down behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and put her head on my shoulder.

“What’s up?” she whispered.

I closed my eyes, wondering if she could feel my heart racing.

“Not much, I guess.”

I felt her breathe deeply, momentarily squeezing me tighter. There was something insistent about the way she held me.

“You couldn’t have known that would happen, you know. It’s not your fault.”

I wrinkled my nose, pushing back the mental image of Jay being swept away like that – instantly erased. It seemed so deliberate, so intentional. In my mind I knew she was right – had to be right – but I couldn’t seem to escape the tyranny of memory.

“I know, Amy” I answered.

She breathed deeply again, her body pressing against my back and squeezing me tighter still. The smell of her hair swirled around me. I didn’t know then that it’d be the last time she’d touch me, that after tonight, I’d never see her again.

“You’re a funny guy, Adrian. You carry the weight of the whole world around on your shoulders, but at the same time you try to shrink into nothingness, hide from sight. You rail against yourself. But in the playground, you put down the weight and took up the space you were meant to.”

I watched the sky deepen through orange to red, then eventually to black. Stars twinkled into existence in the sky. Understanding settled as slowly in my mind as the dew on my skin. Amy was going away.

“Yeah. I did, I felt whole.”

She stood up, and skipped over to the ladder, like she always did. By the time I had turned around to watch, only her smiling, knowing face was visible.

“But the frogs. That was a good touch. Poetic.”

And with that she was gone.

I sat alone at the edge. I breathed deeply, and with each breath felt myself fill the emptiness of the room atop the silo. I took up space, something I’d never stop doing now. Even though I knew I’d never see Amy again, but I felt okay about it. I didn’t feel alone. I knew she’d always be there, inside me, beside me. She was the other fish of my pisces, and it was time for her to swim in the opposite direction.

And she was right about the frogs. They had been a good touch.

It is not writer’s block. Writer’s block is fraught with frustration. Anger. The writer gets upset that she cannot write, and this anger toward herself feeds the stress that prevents her from writing. She is burnt out.

But not this time, she muses. Not burnt out at all.

She seems to have reached some strange zen state, in which the mind flits like a bird from strand to strand of thought. The mind doesn’t stop. She has thousands of thoughts, but none of them vie for attention, none of them seek to stand out from the crowd. She is at peace with her mind, and it in turn is in peace with its self.

Many new agers seem to want to stop the mind thinking, expecting some terrific clarity to come from this state of empty-mindedness, but she sees the fallacy in this line of reasoning. Most certainly the clarity might come, but the instant it does, it destroys the empty-mind state. It’s very existence denies its manifestation.

She doesn’t want to stop thinking, to reach the empty-mind state. Instead she lets her mind drift, finding its own course and balance. Clarity comes from balance, from untethering the mind from process and letting it roam free of expectation.

Images and memories come unbidden to her, but don’t insist themselves on her – they fail to lock, happy to float by and be seen.

And then she opens her eyes, puts finger to key, and starts to type:

“It’s not writer’s block…”

It has been hard to write lately.

I have this story, the one so many of you know. It’s about a boy, and a girl, and its almost finished. So close, in fact, I can taste it. One more entry. I’ve written it four times so far, and it still isn’t quite there. But don’t worry, it is coming. I have to put that story to rest.

I have another story – one about tigers and frogs, but I’m not ready to publish it yet. It’s a lot of the reason its been so hard to write anything else. It’s a good story – maybe the best story – full of powerful, deep, abiding and respectful love, triumph of care over distance and sunshine over darkness. I think its the most important story of my life. But I’m not quite ready for everyone else to read it.

I’ve begun to realize that like so many other authors, I find it easier to write from pain rather than contentedness. Like Hemmingway (and no, I don’t have the balls or the skill to dare to compare myself to his particular brand of Hennessy-soaked brilliance), I have always found it a far simpler task to write from a place of fear.

But I’m not in that place of fear any more. I am not in a perfect place, I have not achieved grace – maybe I never will, but I am not afraid any more. I do not fear uncertainty, though I tremble at the imposing, horizon-blotting figure it cuts. I will not let its lcy grip still my heart. I will push on with what I know in to be right and true.

I feel I must learn to write from a position of love. Many may scratch their head at the unusual counterpoint of love and fear, but it is not hate that is the polar opposite of love, but fear.

I don’t want to write from fear any more. I am not afraid any more. Love is sunshine, fear is darkness.

Sunshine has conquered darkness.