I’m still milking all those lovely pictures that I took during my five days in Provence. I was going to say that this is because ‘I don’t get out much’, but I think I may have complained in the past about my work involving too much travel, so it won’t be plausible. Also, I seem to be attending an awful lot of cultural events since moving back to the UK.
So my only excuse is: it’s the misery of November, we’ve got to compensate somehow. You can see why artists are so attracted to that region – the lights and colours are unbelievable (all are taken without any filters, simply with my phone, which sometimes suffers in poor light conditions).
I didn’t mind the gloomy weather – besides, the Luberon needed some rain after an exceptionally dry summer. I just curled up in my cosy room and read and wrote. One of the books I stumbled across was Hugh Prather’s Notes to Myself. The author was a counsellor and lay minister, who wrote this slim volume of New Age/Christian wisdom, aphorisms, inspirational thoughts, which became a huge hit in the 1970s. It perfectly captured the spirit of the time.
I cannot ‘make my mark’ for all time. Nothing will have meaning ultimately. Nothing will even mean tomorrow what it did today. Meaning changes with the context. It is enough that I am of value to someone today. It is enough that I make a difference now.
Why do I judge my day by how much I have ‘accomplished’? I am holding this cat in my arms so it can sleep, and what more is there. [This consoled me as I realised that I would not finish my first draft.]
Perfectionism is slow death, If everything were to turn out just like I would want it to, just like I would plan for it to, then I would never experience anything new; my life would be an endless repetition of stale successes. When I make a mistake, I experience something unexpected.
A sure way for me to have a disastrous experience is to do something because ‘it will be good for me.’
There may be a natural, healthy kind of fear, but the fear I don’t like and want not the obey is the fear that urges me to act contrary to my own feelings or to act before I know what my feeling are. It is usually a fear of displeasing other people.
If the desire to write is not accompanied by actual writing, then the desire is not to write. Standing before the refrigerator. If I have to ask myself if I’m hungry, I’m not. [Ouch! This one stung a little!]
If someone criticizes me I am not any less because of that. It is not a criticism of me but critical thinking from him.. He is expressing his thoughts and feelings, not my being. Before, I thought I was actually fighting for my own self-worth, that is why I so desperately wanted people to like me. I thought their liking me was a comment on me, but it was a comment on them.