WATERMARK

This past week’s theme was Recovering a Sense of Identity. Actually, at fifty-seven, I have a pretty strong sense of identity — not that reminders aren’t helpful. This next week — Recovering a Sense of Power — in which she talks about faith, and shame — is going to be a challenge.

Again, though, all of this, the assumptions behind it, remind me of my privilege, and my limitations. This book is written for those of us with resources of all kinds — health, time, wealth (by which I mean, our Western standard of living.) It is rich with ideas that are useful, helpful, for us individually, but — I think — can be downright dangerous when expanded into the political and economic world we so safely ignore.

The idea that if we pay attention, the universe will respond to
support us, is a useful one — assuming you aren’t a woman in Darfur,
or a girl in Afghanistan. There is such a thin and jagged line between
the importance of taking responsibility for our own lives, and the
temptation to blame others for their suffering. I just wish Cameron
would explicitly note that her audience is a small one; that not all of
us have access to these lovely synchronicities.

I know, I’ve mentioned this before. Perhaps I will tire of it soon.

For me, of course, within the boundaries of my own life, I do have access. I’ve continued the morning pages,
and am reminded of their value. For one thing, I remember my dreams
every morning, and for me, dreams and writing are intertwined. If I
don’t record my dreams, I do not write.

I am following the rule of not going back and reading what I’ve
written — and once written, for me, it’s fairly well forgotten. So I
have a difficult time with this week’s question: What were you surprised to find yourself writing about? Well, nothing. Partly this is because I’ve done this kind of writing for years, and partly it’s because I don’t remember.

I did some of the other tasks, as well. I made a list of other lives; I made a list of things I like to do; I made a list of small changes. All the lists were longer than I expected them to be.

I had an artist’s date planned for today, but illness intervened. However, it seems to me that this entire week has been an artist’s date. A visit from an old friend, with more time to talk than we’ve had in years, brought my young self back to me. This is a person I speak with deeply; he elicits aspects of myself that are usually well hidden. Of course, now I miss someone I didn’t miss before. There is always that other side.

And then, Niki brought an artist’s date to me:

Drawing pencils; colored pencils; sharpener & eraser; a purple pencil case; a happy sketchbook — and a pink tiger!! Woo-hoo!!

Henry wants the tiger, but it’s mine.