Today’s an anniversary of sorts. Seems I posted my first ever blog post on the morning after the federal election, in May, 2011 – Blue Blue and More Blue. I just reread it. It’s all about my dad and Stephen Harper and disappointment and writing.
We all try to predict the future- take polls, make hope-infused, informed (or not) projections, assess glaring messes and determine we cannot be so collectively stupid as to invite the continuation or repetition of colossal fuck-ups. Then we make promises for active involvement in changing things, or stopping things, or starting things. That, for me, usually looks like whining and complaining either out loud or in writing. That counts a little, right?
I’m so grateful I can’t predict the future.
I’ve never gone to a psychic in my life. I’m not actually worried that they’ll look me in the face and say “cancer is coming” or something bad about a bus. I understand they’re bound by some psychic code of ethics not tell you the crappy shit. I just feel certain it’ll be written all over their face, and I’ll want to grab them by the shawl and shake the awful news out of them. I felt that way with doctors a few times in the last couple of years.
I know so much more about disappointment now than I did last federal election campaign. And I also know that even when the information I have points to a clear path of action (exercise, no sugar, meditation, being more present with my kids, positivity- ok that’s not such a clear one) I take the wrong paths and break all sorts of promises to myself, about how life will be different, about how I’ll make it so. Am I simply a politician in my own little ongoing campaign?
(One of the things I love about writing is that everything can be a metaphor for my life.)
Some things don’t change – I expect to be on the phone yelling with my father again tonight, regardless which way he voted. I really, really, really badly want to wake up to a different government tomorrow. That won’t make everything better. But I promise it will make me take a break from kvetching for at least two days.
Shit, did I just make a promise? Oh well.