I have started two or three entries about my strange, spectacular, and perilous journey in a new job, a whole new world, really. I write for about a paragraph about all of my dreams leading up to it, and then I look at everything that followed, and that cup of inspiration sits empty, indifferent to the whole story. I just can't write enough details of all the good and bad I've had over the past eight months because the real issue doesn't lie with job satisfaction. The thing that needs to be unearthed is altogether much larger than that, because let's face it: this is just the start of a new chapter in my career, so of course there were going to be struggles.
What I have to confess is that I am seriously lacking inspiration. I am starving, thirsty, my humanity draining and my need to create waning. Only now, as I am with my family in Miami for the holidays, can I recognize myself and realize mistakes I've made this year. I have seven days left of this vacation to examine my life, reconnect, and be brutally honest about everything I'm doing and not doing. For that matter, it's encouraging that I've gotten past the first paragraph. I think this means that I'm a little closer to the truth of the moment.
While I have watched my latest muse lose her brilliance and interest, I haven't been in touch with friends. I've allowed work to take my whole focus, thinking about it when I'm not at the office and not sparing enough energy to create new projects on my own. I've taken on projects at work that increased the target on my head, and I just have to ask, with everything I'm doing, am I spending my time wisely? Am I showing interest in the right things?
Being around family refocuses all of that in an instant. Nothing else matters here in the cradle of love. I can begin with this, let everything else scatter to the winds, and then there are obvious pieces that remain. They stick despite all of the changes, because I hear their voices on my phone, get messages from them, emails, and when I'm away, they stay and watch over my apartment. They seek me out and know me for who I really am, and still, what have I done?
I realize I'm hopping back and forth between the past and the present, but things have to change. I'm yelling into an echoless chamber and have finally woken up to see what I'm setting myself up for. I've been able to dim the lighthouse of my heart for maintenance in the past, so...I think that is exactly what's called for now. My heart doesn't lie, and thanks to years of theater where everything false becomes as obvious as those rare moments of truth, I can't lie to myself any more, either. Where will I find the inspiration that I've missed so much, and what is the name of my next muse?
The brutal, uncompromising truth is that I can't pursue what I can't create. That is what I do best. I don't compete, I don't express meaningless ideas. I'm made to live a creative life out of necessity, and that often means I have to go at it alone.
I aspire to be better than I am, so think about that when the changes come.
