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 whyâ€™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: â€œwhat can be good,â€ or how will life get better; and the questioning I, remains witness to such daily debacles. The â€œwhat goodâ€ parts of me seem always to be seeking some sense of contentmentâ€¦or relief.
My personal Polyanna, my daily round-maker, tries so hard to merely do the dayâ€™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 â€œwhatâ€ and to the â€œgoodâ€?