We’re not supposed to talk about asteroids in spooky quadrants of the sky as hardcore materialists and dialecticians, but the mind likes to color outside the lines.
I read something the other day that made me think about my need for ordering chaos and how that connects to my nurturing side. The suggestion there was love and care tends to be expressed practically, through communication and intellectual engagement; that, for this personality type, devotion comes from attention to detail and makes one primed for a vocation in education, social work, or even healthcare.
But what drew my eye was the suggested steps towards healing, or what this personality actually “needs” to feel whole and harmonious: healthy habits, structured routines, tidy spaces, etc. — all things I’ve tended to bristle against or neglect. I am, however, realizing that this need is real. I really like organizing my little home office, after all.
I also like the suggestion that this type is happiest appreciating the small moments of life. I tend to be drawn to big events, but maybe that’s because I don’t know a time when big events didn’t engulf my life in fire and fury. In my heart of hearts, though, I recognize that this need is also true.
I see this growing recognition in my enjoyment of these very boring images I probably wouldn’t have shared in the past.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.”(William Wordsworth)
The tension has a release valve in the gradual acceptance of our real desires and true capacities; the need to be useful can be relentless, like a thump-thumping bassline rattling the insides of our skulls, but that frequency must be modulated by our rhythms and our blues if it’s ever going to get us moving.
Remember that song? About the body as a cage that keeps you from dancing with the one you love? That’s the body rattling against the sound instead of finding its true resonance. The body can be traitorous, but it’s the only one we’ve got.