Mindless & Going Through The Motions

I was pulled to a standstill the other day. Out walking the dog, under an early summer sky. It was a sudden and enforced stillness in the tide of my busy day; the dog was rooted at the end of the lead, refusing to budge, particularly interested in a patch of grass, a fox trail or a rabbit’s recent lunch spot perhaps?

Anyway, in this space of stillness, it occurred to me how much of life we spend simply going through the motions. Being in motion purely for the momentum, for the habit, for the busy-ness. Getting carried along upon a stream that may, long ago, have ceased to be of use or relevance to us.

I know this, because for most of my life, I spent my time going with the flow of a life’s choices that had, long ago, become simply wrong for me.

I had fallen into a 'stream' of life that most observers would have described as comfortable, normal, occasionally happy. It was a benign stream, to those onlookers at least. But I was going through the motions. I was speaking when I was expected to, turning up in the manner that would keep others happy. Putting a plastic smile upon my face and choosing conversation topics that were appropriate and certainly non-threatening. I was being conscientiously dutiful, bearing the weight of this life I had - carrying it for so long that I no longer recognised its heaviness.

I didn’t see how I was limited by its construction – how duty and 'good-girl' pleasing had created a filigree of ironwork around me and my heart’s true wishes. A cage that I had decorated to make it the best I could. But a cage, nonetheless.

I heard a quote a long time back, who said it, and exactly what they said, has faded from my memory, suffice to say that I have made it my own now. It was in the context of why people are attacked, raped, killed, particularly women, and the quote goes – “politeness can kill you.” Conditioned to be pleasant – even when danger was looming and to be rude could prevent its touch, probably.

I wish I had been ruder.

I wish I had hurt more people earlier in my life. Don’t misunderstand, I just mean I should have risked disappointing them. I wish that I had cared more for my own heart than theirs, on balance. That the truths I should have spoken, had been done sooner, before things got too involved, complicated, misunderstood. Before I had placed myself in that cage and made myself look a particular way to everyone else.

I wish I had had the courage to stand against the rushing waters of my life and demand of them that they let me get back to the shore. I wish I had not performed the mime of my life for as long as I did. I wish I had risked the displeasure of others in favour of my own pleasure.

Going through the motions though is a compellingly enticing option. I don’t really blame myself for those choices. I was young. I had been trained well in the art of compliance. I thought that rebellion didn’t appeal to me. It seemed cliched, over the top, melodramatic even. The more ‘graceful’ way was to lean into the duty, feel its yoked weight and justify that I was pleasing others. Being the one that people could rely on, the one that got things done. The responsible one.

I see echoes of myself at that time within my daughter’s decisions now; how she performs little acts of self-sacrifice, tiny moments in time when she places herself into a ‘duty cage' as the easier option than risk disappointing a friend, or potential boyfriend. I see this, and I try to speak up on her behalf. In as much as a mother can ever be heard, I try to give her an understanding that sometimes being disagreeable is the kindest thing she can do for herself. She will make mistakes, of course, but I hope that she will be braver in this aspect than I was in my youth.

These thoughts, this experience of how I lived, has become part of the weave and weft of the character of Lyra in both my novels; a young woman faced with terrible sorrow and responsibility who chooses, perhaps because of her spirit’s innate strength and capability, to take on duty and service beyond her years. Lyra is an admirable character because of this, but our truth will always insist upon being heard, and so, in the story, Lyra’s truth eventually becomes clear.

And my truth did too.

As I floated within the stream, chronically dissatisfied, vaguely aware of the depth of unhappiness that sat within me, considering myself invisible and processing thoughts such as “is this it?” and “my time is behind me”, I saw ahead of me a beautiful, powerfully strong, arm. It was held out over the river of my life, and offered to pull me from the dark waters of my pretending, promising me more time, more life. Avowing that I deserved to be seen. As me. Just me. No cage. No more going through the motions.

Friend, I grabbed that arm, gripped it tightly, wound my fingers around theirs and promised myself I would never let go.

I am a distinctly more disagreeable person than before. I am a distinctly more truthful person too. Happier because of this.

And thankful that I am given reminders of this gift - the dog got a pat for unknowingly giving me the chance to be motionless and mindful once more.