How does one rationalize the contradictions in one's life? Not the contradictions that are externally imposed, as in the neat-freak married to the packrat. How does one deal with one's own contradictory loves and habits? Is this the human condition? Or is it an affliction that affects only a small portion of us.
You see, I count myself well in this group of complex, often contradictory humans. And I spend a fair amount of time fretting over it.
I have a dear friend who is attempting to come to terms with her own "stuff" and trying to reconcile her inner zen master with her outer social butterfly. It is a battle I seem to frequently battle with myself.
Oddly enough yesterday I was staring out the window at some point, G and I each ensconced on separate sofas with blankets and books in had, contemplating the whiteness of the world. It was snowing and the view from my living room was as if the world ended just past the edges of the deck rail, the universe ended not in blackness, but in white, as if we were inhabiting our own little safe world wrapped in a cloud. And I was contemplating the peacefulness of that very scene and how happy it made me feel. Later I resumed cataloging the library and once again wondered how I could reconcile this dichotomy of affections: the peaceful isolation of the view versus the cacophony of voices as expressed by the overflowing wall of books.
Today the snow is all on the ground but the view remains vast. I love the view out toward the west from my house, the walls of glass, the deck, now covered in snow as is all the earth as far as the eye can see, dropping off to the Hudson River below, it also a field of ice with only a narrow channel of open water, the hills rising up on the opposite shore and the vast icy-blue sky. I find that view very peaceful and calming, much the same way I find the dessert calming. I like being able to see open space; no it is more than that, as if by seeing it I also feel it. I do get a bit of that feeling when I go my childhood home in Texas, there is a much vaster sense of space.
I love it here, and I dread moving to some place where I don't have that sense of space that my western view brings, but by the end of summer I am waiting for the first frost, waiting for the growth to die back, waiting for that claustrophobic sense of too much green to be contained.
Those who know me in real life may be laughing hysterically at this point. This is because, well, the opposite is also true.
I also love excess. If I am throwing a dinner party for 8 I cook enough to feed an army of 80. I love flower beds that are lush and overflowing, looking like they are about to explode with plants. I have thousands of books. I probably have enough yarn and fabric to make a garment for every resident of the town in which I live. I cannot eat a single piece of chocolate. I must have the entire bar.
My house is anything but minimalist, but that is not completely my fault. I love a wall filled with books but could do without most of the furniture. G could probably live without most of the books, would love a plain empty wall with one gorgeous painting (I wouldn't mind that either, but I still have to have the books) but can't bear to get rid of any piece of furniture that has ever come into his possession.
But blaming it on the spouse is a cop-out. Really.
I am learning to embrace my contradictions and complexity, although sometimes it even drives me crazy. I want an outer world filled with concerts and art and talk with friends and endless stimulation. And then I want to come home and stare out at space. I love the detail of antique homes, but my heart sings with simple lines and clean surfaces. I love tulips, they are one of my favorite flowers, but I love them best not when they are standing straight and tall, but when they the pollen is ripe, the stems start to sway, and the petals are wide open and appear as if they are about to fall backward, as if they had been to a really wild party and had a little too much to drink. Actually I love tulips because they are both, straight and tall and serene, and also overblown and decadent.
As much as I want my inner world to be pristine and calm, I want it to be cluttered too. I keep trying to narrow down the scope of the library, but each book speaks to me like an old friend. When I am troubled I can go in an look at them lining the wall, and they all having something to say. I find this calming. Or I look at my fabric or yarn and I am filled with dreams of all the things that could be. I like a somewhat neat workspace but I also like piles of materials because sometimes the best discoveries are made serendipitously. It is a constant battle and the fine line between creative clutter and uncontrolled chaos seems to be flexible and ill-defined.
There is obviously no easy answer for me because this same frisson can be seen in the things I love. Think of controlled passion of Brahms versus the Rampant over-emotion of Mahler. Twelve Tone Music makes my heart sing. And yet I adore Bop much to the despair of most of my family and friends. I won't even begin to attempt to explain the breadth of my interests in popular music.
Mark Rothko is one of my favorite painters and his paintings draw you in. But I also adore Anselm Keifer, whose paintings shout and hammer at the soul. Vermeer's paintings would seemingly be not to my taste but again I love the way they envelope you in calm introspection, as if they are trying to create a moment of peace and serenity in a mad world. I love the way Piet Mondrian's paintings look almost spare and calm from a distance, but almost vibrate with an almost overwhelming energy and passion when one bothers to look more closely.
As an internal discussion I am going nowhere. This post is apparently going nowhere either, as there seems to be no clear path or rational answer. I am probably not the easiest person with whom to live, one day reveling in 6 concerts in a single weekend as at Bard Music and at other times seeking silence and my own thoughts, bristling at any who dare to intrude.
I suspect there is no clear answer. There are times when I have been known to wish that I could BE simpler. But it really won't happen and I am (mostly) content with that. I suspect by embracing our inner contradictions we really embrace the simplicity of being. Whether you fall on the side of Heraclitus or Parmenides, it is all the same.
