Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re all washed up at such-and-such an age.
I remember reading years ago that the person you are at [fill in the blank] is who you’re going to be forever, and a bigger crock of nonsense there never was. Each stage of life offers a new venue for awareness, and a certain amount of mileage is probably even necessary for incubating happy surprises.
As is well-documented in my numerous explorations of the subject, I’ve been compelled by circumstances to “go there” in trying to understand my own development (or lack of it) in the extended aftermath of what I called the “New Mexico Project” before we moved out here in ’99. And in the course of being dreadfully sick with possibly the most vicious head cold I’ve ever had these last few days, something new and strange has entered my experience.
First of all, I don’t GET sick. I used to have at least one nasty cold every year until about 15 years ago, when I realized I didn’t need to be sick. I doubt that I’ve had more than two or three colds or illnesses since that time. This spring, however, I seem to have pushed myself to the outer limits of — well, self-destruction, really — and needed the comeuppance. It has to do with missing parts. That’s the only way I can make sense of it.
All my life, whenever I wanted to do something, there’d be the internal “yes, but” reaction. Not that I never followed my predilections, but the “yes, but” was always there, getting in the way: can’t afford it, not good enough, so-and-so wouldn’t like it, etc., etc. Not exactly the best emotional environment for a born creator! It’s like I grew up being a crippled Picasso — a contradiction in terms, right? Always stopping myself short of the unseen goal, always, always… Yesterday, however, in the midst of a temporary respite from the coughing, sneezing, fever, and congestion while I picked up my bouzouki after at least six weeks of no musical activity, there suddenly appeared what I can only describe as a circle of protection. The self-critical background voices were shut out. For just a moment, I was in a space where I could have been onstage at Carnegie Hall and not been the least bit nervous: if I liked it, that was enough. This must sound so simplistic, but in all my years of living and creating, I’ve never had quite the same sensation. It’s the missing piece, the touchstone, the thing my family couldn’t give me: the actual experience of self-worth…
For anyone out there wearily slogging along on his or her own little path through the world and wondering why, I give you this. It’s there, we don’t get it from our parents (though they can reflect it), and that’s all I know.
And for now, it’s back to bed. This thing ain’t over yet.
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