distant relative

We live in a culture of over achievers and multi-taskers. Many of whom are mediocre, at most, at accomplishing either. It is a myth that you can have it all – or at least have it all and have been superior at anything.

In this time of having to do it all some have chosen not to. Some feel pulled to public life, a life of service, a creative life of contributing. Not to compensate for their perceived short comings but to foster some type of change. The world is an interesting place and at this time there are so many in need.

Here, enters the maker, who often has a level of heightened awareness and prefers isolation to the center of a given place. Who can contribute through their work (which takes many forms) and at times is exceedingly public.

This is static – the public is static. The energy the maker gives is static, required and often unceasing. And then there is the moment it stops. A break. The static stops and the maker calls back their energy. They do this in isolation, in focus. In solitude and uninterruptedness; in paying close attention to the washing of a dish, wiping of a surface, writing a word or hearing the sounds in silence.

These are the actions that can give the maker back their energy. It is what returns them to a particular sanity. A quiet perceptive sanity that is necessary in order to survive. It is not about multi-tasking or over achieving, or being everyone’s friend or glad handing or filling space with conversation and most importantly it is about not engaging with others at the moment.

It is the persona of the distant relative. The individual that calls or visits home infrequently if at all (once every 10 years should do it). Who does not write and who dislikes the holidays because they are an interruption and the ultimate static. Perhaps that is why some become depressed when the holidays are nearing – a time of building static. An unceasing crescendo of unfulfilled desires attempting to fulfill desires – ultimately resulting in nothing.

Those who understand this bear witness to the static. They see those who choose solitude, a type of work that is of the mind and heart, that needs immense amounts of healing time when that time is given. That is the time the maker will take. Perhaps to the disappointment of some who are close-who do not understand needs other than their own.

The awkwardness of that existence is grating for both the makers who are trying to escape and for their intimates trying to hold on to them. One can try, or not, to finesse the delicacies of this lifestyle. But, to explain is useless; it is never understood. The individual in need of living a creative life is left at odds or in guilt, or not producing or killing themselves over the internal agony they cannot escape – of being surrounded by those near who are pulling for their own validation. While they, the makers, are in the world; dancing at a feverish pitch, breathless and in ritual until again, the moment presents itself to stop and inhale.

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