connection – The Conscious Pilgrim

I think one of the most dangerous things you can be right now is a lonely GenX’er. Over the past few years, sprinkled evenly between the apocalyptic number of boomer-aged celebrity deaths has been an even match of 40 & 50 something’s taking their own lives. It happens so often that nobody asks how anyone dies anymore, we all just assume that another casualty of depression, anxiety, and loneliness sat in our midst without our knowledge.

I can’t speak to the state of mind of someone toeing up to the ledge at any age, because I know what dark thoughts are and I know that they’re not all the same. What I can speak to, is that doling out guilt by way of telling everyone to ‘check in on your friends‘ can’t possibly work – this coming from someone who has always answered every question about my own well-being the exact same way: I’m fine – and when I do so, it’s either because I actually am fine, or I don’t want to get into what is not fine.

I’ve taken to planting seeds. Or trying to, anyway.

I try to speak openly about attainable notions in mixed company. I’ll often be caught dropping lines like “everyone is doing their best” because I truly believe they are. I’m always down for both light and heavy conversations about things like self-improvement, goals, and likely what is most important – redemption.

Redemption. The notion that it is entirely possible that I am not the same dipshit I was when I was 22 years old. The very idea of human advancement and growth is predicated on the idea that we can not only do better, but that we can absolve ourselves of our wrongdoings.

I won’t pretend that the vultures don’t gather, rubbing their talons together at the prospect of squeezing money from every searcher among us, because that’s a real thing and a real concern.

However, the notion of meeting someone on a spiritual level and being of service – just humans being human to each other – can turn things for anyone. No church or holy book required, and not just checking in on people, but actually seeing them – looking them in the eye – and relating to them on a spiritual level that goes beyond stylistic choices, upbringing, body fat percentage, musical taste, or any other judgement that can be passed.

I used to think and say “everyone’s just waiting for their turn to talk” but the truth is that they’re waiting to be heard, and seen, and respected – which, if we’re being honest, respect is a suitable substitute for love, and love is what we really need.

All this from a borderline-reclusive introvert.
I know, I know… but there’s redemption for me, too.

For what it’s worth, I’m not posting this in an emotional response to the Christmas season, or New Years, or any of that, so I hope this isn’t lost in the holiday well-wishing shuffle. I actually wrote this at the beginning of November.

Much love.

As we encroach on the season of giving (used here in a fit of irony and humor as we’re all quite aware that this season of giving has been co-opted and rebranded as “shopping season” as though there was a season that wasn’t predicated on spending money), I can already feeling myself recoiling into my couch, here in my safe domicile where I am protected by warm slippers, and even warmer dog, and even warmer vegan baking.

Why am I so reluctant? I may blame the cold, and the cold may have earned it’s fair share of blame, but I know at my core that I am a social creature by nature. And if it is by nature that I am social then it should come naturally as the term indicates, so again I ask myself (in greater analytical detail): what unnatural urge has beset me that I am so keen to draw the shades and hide from the outside world? It’s only the 25th of November and I am already feeling the post-holiday malaise.

Let’s excavate. What I know of my own behavior as a consumer is that I’ve developed selfish tendencies, partly as a defense mechanism and partly as a coping mechanism, I’m sure, so it’s not hard for me to confirm that, yes – my blind willingness to stay home and eat brownies on the couch rather than put on a nice sweater and exchange pleasantries with other people in the spirit of the season, where I will permit myself to talk about myself, but not too much, and then allow someone else to talk about themselves – careful not to interrupt, or change the subject back to something I find more interesting.

That sounds like a lot of work. Even my vague and figurative explanation of what might transpire is a bit cynical in nature, which reinforces my desire to hide.

The truth; however, is that I am resistant to engage with people.
Why?
Because people exhaust me.
Why?
Because people only want to talk about themselves.
Why is that a problem?
Because I want to talk about me.
Why?
So that I can control the narrative about myself.
…
So that they don’t draw their own conclusions.
…
Because I want to be accepted.
And loved.

That’s right – There’s a strong likelihood that I don’t want to go socialize because I want to be accepted. Sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it?
This is starting to sound like an exhausted parent telling a child why we can’t go out for ice cream: “We don’t have to go out to be accepted and loved, we have acceptance and love at home.“

So we’re back to square one, reframing the same question in more and more critical ways to point out our own unwillingness to change: Is my resistance really me, or is it some mish mash of hormones and laziness enabling me to embrace my ill-informed preference? Knowing that tomorrow I’ll feel completely left out, especially after I log in to Instagram and see the myriad of photos of people I know enjoying a function I opted out of and not really being consoled by the minor dopamine hit that I might get from the half-dozen likes I got on the picture of my dog I might post instead.

It’s happened before. I’ve quit jobs, bands, and clubs in the past and then promptly; as if on cue, felt left out as though the situation wasn’t of my own design.

I ought to go put that sweater on and drag a brush across my head.
God forbid I accidentally connect with someone.