I’m in a challenging – no, scratch that! Difficult … – mood tonight.
We’ve lost an election.
I’m losing my children to admirable maturity.
I’m disappointing my better half.
And yet I still believe I have something to offer.
Scratch that too.
Something to give. I’m not made to make offers. I’ve really done my best to agree with what the rest of the world wants of me, but I’m really really not made to make offers.
There’s something about giving which satisfies a deep need; there’s something about an offer which feels so much more like a sacrifice.
Don’t want sacrifice.
Do want the love that giving brings. And even when it doesn’t bring anything, would far rather give than receive.
Does that make me damaged goods? I don’t think so. I think it just means I’m a normal human-being, struggling as we all do to make sense of an often foolish environment.
I’m not a fool, but I’m not as clever as I would prefer.
I’m not a dolt, but I’m not as useful as I would desire.
I’m not the kind of writer I yearn to be so much, but I’m not as bad a writer as people have said.
I’m simply, like you and them, a human-being in need of love. And if that could be resolved, if the love I needed to be given could be given, maybe everything else would fall into place.
Or maybe nothing else, at the very least, would matter all too much.
In the meantime we all must struggle with our private hurts. Struggle – and at the same time fashion them into better ways of being. Struggle – and at the same time love those who love us as they can.
Life will never be what we want it to be. But maybe, in some small sort of way, we can accept we must encourage it to be what it wisely sees we must endure.
I have good days and bad; frightened days and excited; loving days and loveless; days of spiritual hunger, days of weird dissatisfaction. But in all of this, all the above, all of the aforementioned, I cannot deny there are people around me who want the very best for my soul.
As I do so want for theirs.
In the end, I suppose there is this complex reality: what we want, what we need, what we have to offer right alongside what we need to give to others, never ever coincides with what we get.
So it is we continue to lumber into darkness – even as the darkness illuminates our light.
And in the end, my darkness is consistently illuminated by the light of my writing. So even if it is half-baked, parched, tired and tiring, I simply can’t reject the conclusion I really do have to come to: above all, beyond all, for ever and always, I must be proud of being that writer no one ever needs to read.