The problem is, I don’t take myself seriously. Not as a writer, not as a maker, not even as a union president. It’s bizarre really – at the age of 45 to be so sure that no one wants to listen to me – contrary to all available evidence. Someone suggested to me recently that this is the patriarchy in action, and I think that’s right. I never hear men around me ask the question of whether their work has worth. They just seem to *know* that it does.
I’m not sure I want that feeling exactly – I think too many men think the world wants their work when it doesn’t and I don’t want to be like that. On the other hand it would be nice to do just about anything without having to plumb the depths of my psyche first. While I don’t want to lose a sense of humour about myself (not that kind of serious), I do want to make way for going to the next level, and stop talking myself out of everything before it happens.
I am setting new goals for the fall because September seems to demand it. There is here a writing, a making, and a work goal – each acting on a specific intention that I have been exploring in the past couple of weeks:
My spiritual goal remains the same as always – keep showing up, no matter what happens.