I write because finally it’s become less painful than not writing (it also happens to be a helluva lot of fun). That’s the same reason I’ve been sending loving-kindness towards those I have resentments against: it hurts my body less to send them loving thoughts than it does to feel anger.
Except when I don’t write, and don’t send kindness.
I’m behind in blogging classes I signed up for. I was heading to my blog, but got sidetracked and saw a blurb for the movie about Aaron Schwartz, “The Internet’s Own Boy.” The blurb was so compelling that I watched the movie, cried at the ending, read a book, and went to bed. I was thrown before I even got near the empty page. (The movie was so good it was largely worth not writing, but even so, I registered the scratchy feeling of disappointment in myself).
And the other day I called someone a gossip. Well, I yelled it from an elevator the doors of which were closing. (Hey – I’m not a coward: I do posses the ability to engage in conflict face to face, but at the very last minute I couldn’t keep my mouth shut AND THE DOORS JUST HAPPENED TO BE CLOSING, OK?).
I probably didn’t make her day any better. Good chance I made it worse. And my own, too, as my self-righteousness wore off. I felt like I would have if someone had shouted the same thing to me.
So I ended up putting more pain into the world by not keeping my mouth shut. I don’t know. I should have gone to her in private? She’s a neighbor in my building, and we now have a conflict thing….it’s depressing.
Anyway, I try. I’m getting there, with both writing and being a better person. I’m here now, and I do let most slights real-or-imagined go; I see when I’m writing resistant, and I see when I fuck up dealing with an unpleasant person-whereas-I’m-delightful.
Isn’t noticing at least a tiny part of the point?