But it set me on a train of thought, why haven't I finished writing a book? There is some irony in the fact that it prompted a blog post, something of a manageable size, that I imagine, as I start, I will be able to complete. Although who knows, maybe this will sit here unfinished for an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year... (edit - it's been a week).
There's also the untidied office, the unwatched webinar, the unanswered emails, the unsorted reams of paperwork, the piles of printed therapy worksheets waiting to be poly-pocketed, the unorganised photo-albums, the unread books, the unwritten books, the unknitted wool, the untidied kitchen drawer, the unchanged lightbulb, the unspoken words, the unfinished conversation, the unplanted seeds, the unweeded garden, the unclean muddied boots, the unsewn hole in the sock, the unpainted rocks collected from the beach, the unclimbed hills, the unvisited places, the unmet friends, the unfinished list....
Urgh, this is why I avoid thinking about this stuff -it's relentless! Some things feel great to finish, but often there's an anti-climax. Okay, yes I concede, there's something very satisfying about cleaning things and sorting things but then it gets in a guddle again and you have to do it all over again. But some things are frankly depressing to finish. I worked my way through Yalom's entire works on audiobook and then what? It felt like the end of a relationship, like being dumped or abandoned. Maybe I won't read his latest book. What if it's the last one? That would feel so so sad.
Yes, I know, some of this is rooted in attachment stuff. I don't like endings. I don't like them at all. I don't like it when books end and I guess it is a metaphor for not liking life ending, or love ending. I don't like the emptiness afterwards. Maybe what I'm most afraid of is not death, but of an unlived life. So I start things, and then start another thing, so there's always something to be done, something to be finished, some bit of life still to be lived.
“Sure baby, mañana. It was always mañana. For the next few weeks that was all I heard––mañana a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.”
― On the Road
Part of it might also be that "bored" was a bad word growing up. I learned very quickly not to say it out loud. I learned there was always some nonsense or mischief to get up to, some adventure to go on - either outside or in my head. So I wrote stories, I played in the dirt, no material - no problem, I'll cut up my mother's curtains; no paper - no problem, I'll draw on the wallpaper.
Maybe it's okay to not finish things. Maybe it's okay to not want to reach the end. Because it's really okay to want to stay here, to live, and to live fully every day and still have some life left over to live tomorrow... and tomorrow... and tomorrow.
When I was growing up there was a familiar phrase in our home "mañana, I guess that will get done mañana". Yes, indeed, tomorrow is not a criticism. Tomorrow is hope.
Signing off. Dr M
