20190824.0430

This month has been a struggle for me in terms of getting writing done. I have been much distracted, less able than usual to sit and put words to pages physical and otherwise, and so I have not been able to build up the buffers I usually enjoy, in this webspace and in others. The distractions have not been unwelcome--really, I ought not to call them that. They are the bits of day-to-day living that make a life, and the writing I do is a distraction from them. It is only because I have learned many bad habits across many years that I make such a comment, that I would view what I do on a screen or with a pen as somehow more important than being with and around those for whom I purport to do any of the work I do.
I suppose it speaks to the various kinds of privilege I have enjoyed in my life. I have often been able to be selfish, to be indulged by attending to my own desires and devices instead of aiding others with their concerns. I have been amply supported as I have sought to do so, even without providing any real return on that support, any justification beyond the love my supporters have for me (of which I am entirely undeserving). And so I have taken on the idea that my desires are more important, and that those which entertain me are the desires to be pursued.
The idea is utterly wrong, of course, and I know it. I know that I am of worth only insofar as I am of aid to others, only insofar as I make things better for others. I know that indulging myself does not make things better. But there are different kinds of knowing, and some of them stand in the way of others. I work to overcome them, but I have not won the battle. I am not sure I ever actually will, even though I will keep fighting.