Disappointed idealist

...and the consequence of dithering

Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.
George Carlin

One daughter had her hopes dashed on Thursday, the other on Friday. Both called to process aloud, hosts of their own sadness banquets, keeping up appearances until I joined in to serve up a little comfort. Suddenly, flood gates flung wide and setbacks instantly doubled in magnitude!

Why this? Why now? Why me?!

My heart ached for them, even as I breathed inaudible sighs of relief that neither was experiencing an outright emergency. In the moment, there was no fixing anything. They didn’t want alternate ideas or platitudes about how much worse the situation might have been. They just needed me to bear witness, acknowledge the sorrow, and stand by as they processed the letdown of watching a ship sail past without so much as a toot from the air horn.

I checked in on them, here and there, for the next few days, genuinely interested in how they were feeling, while some bright part of me slipped down the rabbit hole of fecklessness. I felt drained, discouraged for them and burdened by a frustration with no specific cause.

Disappointment is unhappiness generated by unmet expectations. Some of us have had more of our share than others. And—dangerous liaisons unite!—there are those, like me, who have matched life’s displeasures with equal or greater efforts towards not disappointing, making sure responsibilities are upheld, pleasing people who matter and pacifying those who don’t.

It didn’t work for me. Despite a lifetime of good intentions, I’ve dropped a lot of balls, irritated some people, and failed others. I’d like to report that I eventually stopped giving a flying flamingo, but I didn’t. And, in truth, I may never get there. My motherboard came programmed for sensitivity.

The consequence of all the dithering is that I don’t know quite where this is going. Most times, when I take up my digital pen, I have a basic map that helps me know when I’ve arrived at my destination. This time, the route disappeared from view.

I might have worked on an unfinished draft or polished up something I wrote years ago, but nothing held my attention. I thought about sharing a photo, or posting nothing at all, except I still had this thought-stew that needed to go somewhere.

And, of course, I didn’t want to disappoint.

Even though I knew no one at all would take exception, it felt like a broken promise to myself. I’m not exactly proud of that, by the way. There are more sensible roads to take, with less angst and better sleep.

This, then, is the writer without the filter, the process without precision. It’s the real, inelegant deal, the stained shirt and stretch pants of the craft. This is what writing looks like—or, at least, what my writing looks like—when the signal is low, Mercury’s gone retrograde, the temperatures have spiked, again, and I’ve lost the muse. This is one of the truths.

Another f%@king growth opportunity.

I’m here to bear witness to my own experience, to hope for understanding, and press on, perhaps with sights set on shimmering, “…to achieve without pressure, giving quiet joy and dimension to the way I live,” as inspired by novelist,

prue batten

in her recent post.

I’ve been going barefoot more than usual, while on my never-ending rounds of watering potted plants and gardens. Maybe it’s a subconscious effort to soak the last of summer into all the places of my body that need that kind of brilliance. The cognizant me is ready for this heat to be over.

My kids are fine. Disappointed, but fine.

Soon enough, I expect I’ll be going on about how cold it is and how much I miss the local tomatoes, and the flowers.

I have a pair of black swallowtail caterpillars in a Ball jar on my kitchen table, finishing out their final instar before entering the chrysalis stage. I’d planned to relocate them from my small parsley plant, which they would have devoured, down the road to a big patch of Queen Anne’s Lace. But, one thing led to another, or didn’t, and I never got around to letting them go.

The butterflies should emerge in about 10 days.

That’ll be something.

~Elizabeth