I am finding that my worlds are increasingly disparate, and that the one that I enjoy the most is the one that resembles the state that most of us aspire too; that is to say, independently wealthy. This is a problem, as I am not married to an earner, I do not retire with a pension, and I am not even as wealthy as I was before I divorced an increasing number of years ago. I should be worried. I am being bombarded by tweets and posts and documents from well meaning colleagues and friends as well as any news that I seek out with increasingly stressing news of the second wave and the virus' mutation and the limited units of vaccines and the moral dilemmas of a crumbling systems on every front, and yet I am at peace.
Is this the point of no return in burnout? Or am I healthy to enjoying the task at hand, sorting through the things at home that give me joy and taking on tasks that have little to no meaning but beauty? The decorating for Christmas was only seen by myself and my teen. Is my life futile? Is every act futile? Then why does it feel good to reorganize the decoration in anticipation of a more organized and streamlined advent next year? I have been abandoned by friends I love most as easily as discarded takeaway container. For them, living their lives is not much changed without me even if mine has radically suffered. I am trying to replace their attention with things? Is this good coping or bad?
If I find the clearing of my social calendar a relief, with incremental advancing of a life lived so far behind that I thought I would die in a frantic race to keep up with the world around me (even though in many ways I am way off to the side of the rat race and most social calendars, not having even adopted family or social demand). I struggle to stay social as an act of survival, given my antisocial introverted tendencies that have been luxuries I have lived without for most of my adult life.
Is this indulgent hedonism that allows me to finish the Martha December edition within 2 weeks of receiving it? Or is it a gift to make my way through my boxes to discover that I am never going to repair the dozens of colourful socks that we have worn through only to cut the usable bits into squares and rectangles and imagine they could become a quilt to pass on to the next generation? Finishing a book in the bath, listening to an audiobook while I do laundry and cook and clean to its completion of a task. Is this how a good life looks? Or is it indulgent? Naive? Entitled? Insensitive? I have felt in the past all of these conflicts, but somehow in this grey January with the brightness the lengthening days bring to it, I am content. To do the mundane at my pace and enjoy the pleasure of the moment is a gift that I am grateful for today, in part, because I know I am able to, when others are not.
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