Living in Wholly Myself

I love life for the most part, even if this particular part of the year is exceptionally hard on me; I am not a fan of living as a shut-in thanks to the weather. But for now, this is the deal, so why not try to make the best of it?

What I love the most is listening and singing - albeit badly - to music. It really is not my issue whether or not I have a good voice, but rest assured, I don't. I try to sing in whatever register the artist sings in, which - if you have heard "The National" and love them as I do, then... well. I am not a baritone or a bass, obviously. How many females do you know who can reach that level of voice? Yes. Exactly.

But I enjoy it. It makes me feel light and love, joy, wholly myself. How often do I feel wholly and completely myself? Certainly not in social situations, not outside of my home, although I had moments of it at work, when I was completely immersed in other's issues, being aware of them and not myself - a moment of being wholly myself, when I am outside of myself. Does this make sense? I guess you need to have experienced this to truly know what I mean. Let me try this:

You must have a hobby, something you do that is just for you, no one else? My artwork is that, so is my writing. I become so absorbed in what I am doing, my mind exploring so many things while my hands do their own thing. I am still me, doing my thing, but yet, I am not aware of my normal ... normal... um, my aches, or my back hurting, or my tinnitus singing, or my husband watching the telly or what the cats are doing are outside my hearing, my awareness, mot impugning on my consciousness; I'm just being wholly me, completely myself, unaware of anything but that one thing I am doing.

Listening to music does this, too. And this is the best place to be.

I once wrote that I cannot meditate, can't reach that oneness with the Universe, because I have the "monkey mind". And I do have this kind of brain, swinging through the trees, scratching and spitting and cursing all the way. If I try to sit down cross-legged, and make my mind go blank, I'm done before I've begun - because this is one cranium that is never silent, never quiet, can't find that inner space. It won't ever happen. But yet...

I draw, sing and write, and the monkey mind is off elsewhere, spitting and scratching its genitals at someone else, and I have no idea who or what or why, but I can't take credit for it. Because I am finally in that sweet spot, that place, that only place that is mine alone and no one else's. And it took me a very long time to realise that I have always - always - been able to get there any time I want, all of my life, without a worry. I just cannot do it by sitting still.

As long as I have this, what more do I truly need?

Nothing.