Sitting on the damp earth, under clear skies and a tree that looks like a dogwood, but taller, I could climb it, the edge of the bench pressing into my back, it is too old and rotted to hold my weight, reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, smoking a cigarette.
It is all legal, all comforting. Pleasing.
But I can’t relax, can’t get a grasp on the one thing that’s bothering me. I’m pushing something down from my chest into my ass, where it should seep into the dirt and flow away into someone’s crops for a family to eat in their corn or brew in their hops …
Relax.
Feel the bad shit, it’s all part of me.
And it is simple, almost disappointing in its smallness, and my denial has of course made it swell with pride - to think that this small thing had the power to disturb me.
It is guilt. Associated with pleasure.
I have squirreled all my pleasures away into manageable and secret occurrences – checking my email while my boss thinks I’m working, reading my book in the bathroom while entertaining a guest, flipping off grumpy old men after they are long gone from the office – so I don’t enjoy my enjoyment. Excitement = heightened, peace and relaxation = nil.
No more.
Work in full, play with the full heart. No more of this sneaking around. I don’t want to steal from my pleasure, so I won’t steal from my self-imposed responsibilities.