Scattered | Rivers and Roads PDX

I walk into my office to write in my notebook, but my mandolin is on my chair, and without thinking, I strap it on instead of moving it aside like I meant to do.

This sort of wandering mind has dogged me since our road trip to California last week. Starting one thing, turning to another, forgetting what I meant to do. After several days on the road, many nights in a tent, a head cold, countless hours of playing music, and many conversations and people to catch up with, my mind remains scrambled and scattered. I’m humming “Shattered” as I bumble and stumble.

***On the road, view from I-5 near Shasta***

I just go with the flow, bobbing along, careening off the banks, going under, rebounding, looking for the next landing spot—but apparently not looking very hard.

I bounce from reading texts, emails, and blogs I follow, to cleaning camping gear, to deadheading flowers and picking green beans, to laundry, to playing music, to finishing the book I’d left behind the week before (so good: The History of Sound, by Ben Shattuck), derailed by news, then scrambling back. There’s plenty to draw the eye, if not the brain. I can’t settle though. I wonder, as always, is this how it will be from now on?

In another blog someone posted a photo of their workspace. It was a disaster, though it may have made sense to him. Then I looked at my own desk, and saw a different mess. It might reflect my scrambled mind, or be the cause of it. And the desk doesn’t even reflect the other messes of the week.

I’m adrift on several works-in-progress, and haven’t yet found a shore to tie onto, except for brief moments of landing, then shoving off again. Interruptions are forever, most from myself, some from others. I want to engage, want to do everything at once, I allow my phone notifications to ding me. Multi-tasking has become the enemy.

Though I didn’t fly on this last trip, it sure feels like jet lag.

~~~

I read a blog the other day called “How Accurate Is Our Self-Image?” reminding me that my negative self-perceptions go back to long ago negative youthful experiences. These skewed images can linger, in spite of the successes that followed into adulthood. When people say nice things to me, my automatic response is to swat it away, think they’re lying, or just being nice, or making conversation.

It’s ridiculous. At 71, I know, I KNOW, I’m competent at many things. And I work on the other things. This month I’ve been swept up into a new online “Mandolin Meditation” practice with a great teacher. Every morning for an hour, I play exercises and tunes faster and faster via metronome. But in the back of my mind, I’m wondering if I can keep it up, telling myself I’ve never been able to stick to any regular, organized music practice. I assume I’ll fail once again at establishing a regular practice. That’s the mindset. Quitter. Diletante. The negatives.

Then I consider the practices I have done, and still keep at faithfully—even loving doing them.

Blogging since 2017
Daily writing practice since 2019
Renewing a regular swim practice since 2021
Stretch and PT exercises daily for two years
Writing a poem most days for 1½ years
Posting a poem on my front yard PoetTree every two weeks for 1½ years
And almost 50 years with the same guy….

Pretty regular! Pretty dedicated! Why can’t I do that with music? Well, because I never have, that’s why. So I lose faith.

We’ll see. Obviously I can stick to a practice. I’m enjoying this daily meditation of playing new things, getting faster and more capable. It’s fun, it’s given me some juice, and wings beneath my fingers! I want and hope to keep it up on my own when the course is over.

Recently I heard the phrase, “the sting of mediocrity.” How long have I been “intermediate” at too many things? No one strives for mediocrity do they? Wanting to do better or be better seems innate, or maybe I was taught. “Better” however, is too hazy a goal. I’m getting better all the time, but then the goal moves to the next place of doing better. Damn. I’m scattered and talking circles around myself.

Is it just me? There are plenty of people I think of as being confident and well adjusted and secure, yet in a moment of hesitation, they speak to their self-doubt. It always surprises me, and makes me sad. I want to argue with them, point out their strengths. I have to do this for myself.

I don’t know which childhood stories direct my “not good enough” state of mind anymore. It’s an amalgam: parents or birth order, bad friends or school, mean boys, sports, 7th grade gym class. I know those stories well, have pushed on that bruise, picked at the scab, tasted the salt. And mostly moved on. Mostly.

One gift of aging is giving up on those stories, setting them aside and seeing them for what they are, just stories. Most likely delivered by someone who knew nothing, or had a mean streak, or a bad day. It’s long past time to re-write my own script, re-frame the photo. Maybe believe all those nice comments! Or some anyway. Stop giving negative thoughts unnecessary power.

~~~

The garden, as always, is my balm. Unless of course you lose focus and your eyes rest on the weeds. I’ve gotten practiced at looking away, and like that, I practice not focusing on the lacks. Look at what you can do Nancy. Not at what you can’t do. Look how far you’ve come! My son reminded me how I used to hold back in music circles, playing and singing quietly in groups. Now I don’t. I’d forgotten.

***A bit overgrown and weedy now, but still a place to rest my mind.***

I’ve begun several different essays, abandoned, returned to, then forgotten. There’s a memoir on the back burner. I’ve rearranged these paragraphs several times over. I suppose this is the point of writing for me; muddling through to clarity. What will rise to the top?

If you’re reading this, it means I may have come in, if not for a landing, then at least a stopping point. Wish me luck. And tell me your story, I could use the diversion.