SONGLINES

"... the labyrinth of invisible pathways ... known to Europeans as 'Dreaming-tracks' or 'Songlines'; to the Aboriginals as the 'Footprints of the Ancestors' or the 'Way of the Law'.


Well, for a while atleast, the blogging fell into disrepair.  Despite, I'm sure, frequent appearances to the contrary, I'm not that comfortable talking about myself. Particularly as I haven't gone down the anonymous route. I'll talk all day about my opinions, but I've never really been much for talking about what makes me tick. There's reasons for that; people don't always want to know, I have dignity to consider, but most importantly, I haven't always known myself. Nonetheless ...

Here I am, with a stinking cold and it's gone for my weak point. It's bringing me down. To be honest, at times over the last weekend I've been wondering if I've ever really got better. If the fog of depression ever left me or if I've just become used to it. I'm haunted by a nagging idea I may have reduced my expectations and life experiences to reach an accord with it. A state that doesn't challenge and presents little risk of hurt. 

Looking at me from the outside, I'd like to think anyone would say that's rubbish. I play music in front of people, I keep house and home together, I'm inclined to take up social invitations, I'm romantically involved again after too long on the sidelines. 

But, hey, don't give me that positivity while I'm busy being hard on myself. 

I find it surprising, having reached this stage in my life, that these emotions still lurk. Old, unsettling feelings that I find hard to pin down, let alone adequately describe. Maybe like a fever from childhood. That. Anxiety, deep in the stomach and tingling the scalp. 

I've been doing everything I should. Eating well, reminding myself that I tend to cope and how I've changed. I may seem the same to people who have known me, though the way I look at things is different now. Different so that my new internal dialogue is still, occasionally, unrecognisable to me and my thoughts get jumbled. That's where I was this weekend.

"Jesus, the self pity", I hear you say. "A bad day with man-flu. We all get them. Man-up". Well, yeah, fair cop. It was just a bad day, it didn't last forever. The thing is, if you've ever had that bad day feeling, and it's lasted for months, the first inkling of it sets off alarms.

That's what prompted this entry. When things go askew we all of us tend to follow a kind of script. Hard-wired behaviour in trying circumstances. It's the basis of the great tragedies, how big stories get written and, on a more mundane level, I guess it's why I feel that same old panic whenever I get down.

A while back, I had what on first impression is a rather bland, self-helpy kind of thought: The familiar patterns, my personal songlines, mired in myth and hazy memory, are in large part a struggle against accepting. The struggle makes things ten times worse. It sets me up to lose every time,  because I need to accept how I feel as a part of who I am. If I accept my feelings as the fleeting sensations they always prove to be, as a familiar part of me, they begin to lose their negative charge.

What's required isn't a passive acceptance of circumstance, but pro-active acceptance of my own feelings. It's not pulling my socks up nor putting on a brave face. But I have the blessing of self awareness. By being aware I can start to influence my emotional environment.

The surprise ingredient for me, the thing that starts me moving out of these doldrums, is an acceptance of responsibility for how my feelings and mood impacts on those around me. It's a matter of trying to maintain emotional responsibility when things aren't right with me. Maintaining at least a semblance of something. 

Much in the same way as I keep doing the dishes.