Sitting still is a struggle. I resist it mightily–if not in bodily motion, by sullying the stillness with a generous portion of guilt. For not getting more done. Not accomplishing. Even though wisdom is born of stillness. I fight a constant urge to get up, move, do. To produce. To have something to show. Something that will create capital. As if my worth, the worth of my words, my existence, depends on the exchange of currency. As if I want, need, to be bought. And sold. Stillness doesn’t create wealth. Or acclaim. But the things I want to put into the world exist only in the realm of experience, thought. And dreams. They resist commodification. Fight mightily against being confined and conscripted. Creativity at war with internalized capitalism. It’s a bloody battle. But creativity & stillness have heart. They might survive the carnage. Then what kind of world might they create?
On Capital
Yesterday I read Mary Oliver’s poem Black Oaks. It closes with the lines “I don’t want to sell my life for money, I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.” I’m hanging on to that, letting it resonate.