I'm fine. I'm fine. It's fine. Said over and over and over. Thank goodness I'm done with all that these days, but the tendency is always there. Always. Thank you so much for writing this.
I got so good, I believed my own performance! So deeply relatable...and turning away from that feeling of truth that could disrupt the story? Also so relatable. Thanks for this, Nina.
And can we please stop asking one another if we have any trips planned, as if that's the most interesting thing to talk about?
I loved the distinction between performing a life and actually inhabiting it. The image of standing at the lake with no audience, no photo, and nothing to prove felt like the real center of the piece. Sometimes pleasure begins exactly where performance ends—when the body finally believes it is safe enough to be present.
I was thinking the same. "I really should be making the most of 'summer,'" I thought.
I am 61. Do I really need to make a point of frolicking in the waves or smiling on a sailboat or wearing my flirtiest, frothiest summer frock? For what? For whose benefit?
I'm actually sitting inside an air-conditioned house today, reading an absorbing book, getting used to the strange comfort of just being with me, by myself. Just feeling what it feels like to let time spool out. To trust in the safety of the present and immediate future. Not looking beyond that.
"Life is short," they say, but it doesn't feel short at this exact moment. There are hours and hours ahead of me. I will have work to do, but not right now. Maybe that is the best reading of "summer," for me.
And maybe I can carry that particular version of "summer" into the rest of the year.
I'm fine. I'm fine. It's fine. Said over and over and over. Thank goodness I'm done with all that these days, but the tendency is always there. Always. Thank you so much for writing this.
Thank you, Jessica. The pattern is always there for me, too, I’ve just gotten better at noticing it.
I got so good, I believed my own performance! So deeply relatable...and turning away from that feeling of truth that could disrupt the story? Also so relatable. Thanks for this, Nina.
And can we please stop asking one another if we have any trips planned, as if that's the most interesting thing to talk about?
It’s a trap I found myself in again and again, and I’m so happy to be able to identify it now.
I loved the distinction between performing a life and actually inhabiting it. The image of standing at the lake with no audience, no photo, and nothing to prove felt like the real center of the piece. Sometimes pleasure begins exactly where performance ends—when the body finally believes it is safe enough to be present.
That’s right. Presence makes pleasure possible.
I was thinking the same. "I really should be making the most of 'summer,'" I thought.
I am 61. Do I really need to make a point of frolicking in the waves or smiling on a sailboat or wearing my flirtiest, frothiest summer frock? For what? For whose benefit?
I'm actually sitting inside an air-conditioned house today, reading an absorbing book, getting used to the strange comfort of just being with me, by myself. Just feeling what it feels like to let time spool out. To trust in the safety of the present and immediate future. Not looking beyond that.
"Life is short," they say, but it doesn't feel short at this exact moment. There are hours and hours ahead of me. I will have work to do, but not right now. Maybe that is the best reading of "summer," for me.
And maybe I can carry that particular version of "summer" into the rest of the year.
I love the exact place you’re in right now. That’s pleasure, to me.