Dear Hours and Days,
It has been a long time, 5 years, I think anyway, for my medicine to work. Ah, maybe it has been many more years than even that? The mind is very hard to change. I don't mean the part of your mind that chooses which ice cream to get- I mean the part that seems to be hewn of bone, immoveable, unplastic. Yes, science tells us the brain is all kinds of mutable, but, I am speaking of the learned things, the mind that is your conscience. The mind that tells you when it thinks you are good and when it thinks you are bad and the mind that spends two hours analyzing if you asked her about the funeral gently enough or if you should have said nothing. That mind, the authority part of your mind. Ah, it's so rambling and vague, isn't it?
What I mean, I think, is that I set about looking for a different foundation, a different sort of tool for coping- you might call it acceptance, you might call it anything you like, actually. But it felt like an open wound, irritated constantly, throbbing at night, and unresponsive to salves or balms. It isn't, no it isn't gone, it is less. Noticeably less. Why? It's hard to say, but I think it is because of wonder. I have spent a good amount of time working to wonder. To encourage wonder. I don't mean answers, I mean questions.
Questions like these:
Why do I grind my teeth when they say that? Where does my idea of 'right' come from? What do I think my duty is? Who told me it was my duty? Who told me to be quiet? Who told me to be nice? Who told me to smooth things flat? Why do I jump in there to try to make it less awkward?
A leopard can, I think, change its spots, a little anyway.
