I have, seeing as you ask, been in pursuit of disengagement.
Yes, I know that three weeks of silence is virtual blogicide, but this poor player doth sometimes suspect that all her strutting and fretting ‘pon the social stage is a bit… well… breathless, if you will. And I’ve recently been learning to breathe. With a little help from a bear, a lama, and a Naiad recently returned from a silent retreat (pity the monks; I’m going this spring), I learnt to train this unruly mind just a little. And this unruly tongue.
The unruly heart is still jerking about all over the place, of course, but you have to start somewhere.
Don’t panic. I’m not going to run off to West London in soft-pile boot-cut black leisure pants and a gilet, picking up a little raw something from Whole Foods on my way to the yoga studio. But I have been learning to listen, and breathe, and not say fuck quite so often.
And it’s been great. The pursuit of disengagement has really been making me happy.
And then this happened. Bugger.
No, something didn’t happen in the top right hand corner, you fool. I’m talking about the RING.
Oh well. I can breathe, and laugh, and blog, and shop, and screw up, and learn, and read, and ride, and eat, and drink, and meditate, and dance, and get married, all at the same time, and maybe by then I’ll have learnt not to say bollocks when I do the vows.
Utterly, joyfully engaged, I have never felt more free.
Happy 2010. May every word count.
amen.
“The pursuit of disengagement.”
I see what you did there…
Many congratulations!
- A regular reader of your written word.
again, amazing news Mol, many congrats and all the best for your coming lives together, i’m sure they’ll be full of smiles and shiny things!
We’ll have to organise that drink with yourself and Tom when the dust settles and we get a moment. I’ll pop you both an email v.soon!
Congrats!
shucks
The snowflakes are the myriad tears of a legion of men now left to row in the galleys of the un-engaged-to-u. They long to be just the lucky insentient ring on your finger. Oh, to be the brave tin soldier, what could be finer? Oh, to be final – they march, one-tin-legged, towards the glowing fire of the horizon, obliged by despair to seek the level, untroubled lot of oblivion.
[...] thanks to recent pursuits (a somewhat beatific smile peeking through), I knew what to [...]