Always, always there are limits to my being. Each day they seem to thrust themselves upon me at various points. They tell me who I cannot be; they take me back into the why’s of my own history; they force me, somehow, to reel off a virtual list of self-testing questions as if I am elected to be my own examiner.
Mainly my response is: to hell with you. What good, I ask, derives from these demons of my own imaginings and self-conjurings?
But they never ask: “what can be good,” or how will life get better; and the questioning I, remains witness to such daily debacles. The “what good” parts of me seem always to be seeking some sense of contentment…or relief.
My personal Polyanna, my daily round-maker, tries so hard to merely do the day’s doings, that I usually suspend any criticism of him. Performing the doings of my day, to whatever extent they make that day (i.e., this day), I literally become my doings.
I have discovered only recently a concentration of doings within the limits of my being. Instead of testing limits each day, the pushings beyond the what I am of each day, I seem to try to find new moments within each hour.
I seek new ways of expanding silences, or ways of observing constructively what would have been boring or knawing, previously.
Perhaps these are aspects of what some would call patience.
Perhaps I have merely expanded my concept of any period of time, attempting to find new spaces, and expanded senses of myself.
Tomorrow? – can I collect the pieces of being, today, within its bounds and limits, with yet some sense of hope and some sort-of answers to the “what” and to the “good”?