Eclectic Musings

I’ve tried to write a blog post almost everyday for several months now, but nothing seems to want to come out onto paper (or the screen, as the case may be.) I guess I’m suffering from writer’s block, but I’m also so busy mulling over so many things that it’s hard to put some semblance of order to my wacky thoughts, so I just give up.

BananaBerry, my oldest, recently asked me what I would put on a vanity license plate if I were to get one. It took me a few days to decide on an answer, but eventually I settled with Eclectic.

Eclectic (adjective)
1. selecting or choosing from various sources.
2. made up of what is selected from different sources.
3. not following any one system, as of philosophy, medicine, etc., but selecting and using what are considered the best elements of all systems.

I like the term eclectic so much better than scattered, adult-ADD and the one my sister used most, ditz.

Rather than try and put forth an organized, well planned, well executed blog that will one day get me on Oprah, I am just going to settle for incoherent babbling that I hope some of you (my husband assures me there are readers, but he may just be protecting my sensitive self-esteem) may find amusing, if nothing else.

An acquaintance, who moved into and out of my life a few years back, once told me she loved coming over to my house, because it made her feel so much better about hers. It was a compliment. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But it’s tough being the crazy one who makes others feel better by comparison. I dread that my writing may be like that. My secret dream of writing a book may die in the flames of mediocre, convoluted musings.

And that leads to a few other things kicking around my head:

Why do people have to go away to find themselves? Are those of us who stayed three blocks from where we grew up somehow lost? Have I not really found myself? Or is it simply that travel sells and my sort of reality isn’t really worth anything? Is that why Canadians are more depressed than ever? (According to Stat Canada from 1994 to 2004, visits for depression/anxiety made to office-based doctors almost doubled. )

And why is it some people are so surprised that I struggle with staying at home? Do any of them spend time watching TV, surfing the internet, or reading magazines? If I lived at home with someone who constantly denigrated my choices, we would call it abuse. So why is it my problem when the culture surrounding me says I’ve dropped out, somehow failed the feminist cause, and most certainly not achieved my full potential? The nasty little voice in my head (the one I wish I could drown) says it’s because it’s true.

And then to try and drown that nasty little guy in my head, I try to think cheerful thoughts and just be happy. Easier said than done, I’m afraid, and then I just want to log on to the blog and complain, but really there’s enough complaining on the internet. We’ve made complaining into a fine art in our culture. And I choose not to participate, because it’s such an easy slope for me to slide down.

So I merely turn off the computer and go and hug my kids, and kick the Lego under the couch, move the clean laundry (or is it dirty laundry, sometimes it’s hard to tell) onto the floor and escape into a good children’s novel, because I’m having trouble finding adult novels that aren’t full of the yucky stuff I’m trying to avoid.

Life is good. Really. It just seems like the rest of the world’s a little off.

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