What, why and who

I wrote this in writing group tonight after having an argument with Hubby again about my lack of motivation to keep myself in vocal shape. He was well oiled with single malt so wasn’t really aware how much he was hurting my feelings, and I left for writing group in a terrible mood. The first exercise proved to be a very cathartic experience. We were to write at the top of the page: What am I doing here? Why am I here? and Who am I? and then go from there for 20 minutes.

“I hear the sound of geese in the distance, the loud honking, and if they’re close enough I can even hear the flap of their beating wings and I know that they are practising, rehearsing for the great escape, for one of these days the sky will be black with the passage of southward-bound vees and it will be the last of them until they once more darken the sky on their return.

I am going nowhere. I am doing nothing. I marvel at my inertia, at my lack of self-motivation, at the dearth of passion that would otherwise drive me to stretch my wings and rehearse for my flight. I have talent I am told. There seems to be nothing I cannot do when I put my mind to it, and yet I am one of those people who needs external incentive to do anything. I do everything for others. I do nothing for myself because I love it, because I cannot live without it.

I often wonder why I bother, if it would not be better to find a job, any job, to fill time and give me the excuse I need not to pursue my art, or my music, or my writing. Right now I have too much time, time that I waste in idle chatter and mind-numbing repetitive actions. I do not even read as much as I used to. I do not write as much as I would like to, even though I have a continuous narrative in my head.

But worst of all, I do not sing because I love it. Did I ever love it? Was I ever so passionate about singing that I could have let everything else go to hell so that I could do it and nothing else? I don’t know. I eschewed a performing career, even the pursuit, successful or not, of a performing career, to marry and raise children. Somewhere along the way, my priorities shifted. My passion waned. My sense of self changed.

I love to sing, but I love the fellowship of my fellow musicians more. I do not want to spend endless hours perfecting my craft if there is no opportunity to strut my stuff. I have always felt that I’m good, but I’m not that good. I’ve never received the encouragement that would spur me on to great things.

So I don’t practise, I fall into poor shape and then cannot rise to any occasion that comes along. I need incentive. I do not seem to be able to work without it. Without writing group on Tuesday nights I would not write. Is it the writing that I crave? If so, I could write away from here. Is it the society I need?

What am I doing here? I am writing, spilling out that constant narrative so that it leaks out the end of my pen and fills the page with loops and swirls, with arabesques of meaning and images that were only in my own head. Why am I here? Because I cannot seem to do it elsewhere. If only I could sit at my kitchen table and write, then maybe I wouldn’t need to come here.

Who am I? I’m beginning to believe that I don’t really know, that no one really knows. I am an enigma to myself. Who am I? I don’t know. I thought I did, but I realize I was wrong.”

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