“You can’t say murmur, without murmuring.”
To be honest, this entry is more or less just a messy collage of incomplete thoughts and muddled mind chaos. That is the state that my subconscious mind is currently in. Consider that your forewarning, it may be a waste of your time to continue.
Nonetheless, today I have for you a murmer-er’s take on how imaginative skeptics evaluate and navigate love, intimacy (or lust) and life choices.
This one’s goes out to all of my hopeless romantics, fateful dreamers and wishful thinkers out there.
In addition to seeking a great perhaps, I’ve come to share another recent discovery involving the recipe of: me. It is my hope that these insights go beyond the small scale (me) previously mentioned, to maybe reach some other contently lost and wandering humans. I hope that you too can find some sort meaning in the following series of my own scattered thoughts.
You see, I have found that my mind has been lost in the direction of self-reflection. Sometimes, in fact I get so wrapped up in self-reflection mode that it triggers another mode which I call self-criticism. As we proceed be sure to keep in mind, it is my hope that this brutally honest entry of meandering ramblings will somehow help me or you, dear reader, reach an inner sense of poise, and grace as I continue to tip-toe (or on somedays stomp) down this thin line that divides these two modes of internalized thinking; for lack of a better description. It is my hope that by doing so we may find peace with the flaws and vulnerabilities that make us, hyouman.
So here I am. I am here to unapologetically confess a fabulous personal flaw that I have recently come across. This discovery, might I add, has inspired me set out in a far-fetched attempt to get a better grasp of it; to cultivate acceptance.
I, Ashley René Fischer, have an unusually innate tendency towards imaginative skepticism when it comes to the ideas of love, lust, intimacy, boundaries and anything else within the realm of developing meaningful interpersonal relationships.
In Susan Cain’s best selling novel Quiet, she establishes (quite ingeniously), a powerful list which she calls a “Manifesto For Introverts”. She writes, “there is a word for people who are in their head to much; thinkers.” Hm. Interesting.
While to this book I owe nothing but praise and utter adoration in the sense that she gives voice to the coutless thoughts, doubts and questions I’ve found myself asking for the past 5+ years of my life, I still cannot help but find myself simultaneously pushed up against this sort of love hate dichotomy of careful intrigue. Although on the one hand I love the book and believe there is much insight to be found between the covers, and the lines.. on the other hand working my way through her writing has led me into another dark tunnel of thought clouds. Where, I sit, yet again drowning in a muddled puddle of self-reflection, not to pout but rather to beg the question– Susan, what would you say then to people who consider themselves over-thinkers? What does one do when say, think mode becomes inescapable? When one becomes so entranced in that deep blue sea of imaginative skepticism, they can’t find their own way out? Who’s going to be there with some metaphorical flippers, a snorkel and a quiet little reminder “Dude, its okay. You are allowed to come up for air to take a breather”. (To this question a little tiny voice inside of me is screaming “the Lord”!!) But my faith journey is still under construction, I will explore that topic at another time.
Now I apologize if that introduction was sort of a long string of unrelated ideas. For both of our sakes, let me take a stab at better breaking this down for you, first of all, I will start by explaining what it is I mean when I say imaginative skepticism.
I have always been praised for my ways of thinking creatively. When I was younger I had an amazing imagination–which adults coached me to think was a good thing in the recipe of me. Today, however, I find myself both fighting against this trait and trying desperately to develop it fully. This gets tricky, this love-hate relationship I have with well, myself because I almost always let my day dreams get the best of me. I usually give in to my creative beasts in a”old enough to know better, too young to care” type of way.
Today though, those same adults that used to praise my creative inclinations have replaced that praise with concern (for a number of reasons I guess). But it seems unfair for them to keep reminding me, to not lose sight of reality; “Listen to me, Ash.” “Be realistic, Ash”. I’ll be the first to admit that I get mixed up from time to time. The mind games are a daily thing, my mind hums and drums in riddle-y soliloquies. But whether it is due to my biological makeup, the fault of my own self imposed mind-body restraints or those concerned external forces that continue to influence my ways of thinking, my ways of being I have yet to determine. It becomes most murky and confusing though, when I try to steer while simultaneously trying to balance these oppositional “guiding” forces; the internal and the external. I will admit, I am a painfully loyal people pleaser. And I loathe that. I am working on that, too. We all are.
Anyway, as I was saying, when I pair my creative imagination with those skeptical advocates, I arrive at this new idea; that embodies this new train of thought patterns.
Imaginative skepticism: adj. A neutral term. Ok in small doses.
This is an idea that I have come up with to characterize my innate tendency (and inner voice) that flips into flee mode when I encounter things outside of my self drawn zone of comfortability (usually as a mechanism of self-protection). It seems that if it starts to feel like anything at all might be burrowing their way into the thick clay walls that have been built up around my heart, soul and inner peace, a deep dark beast that resides in the pit of my stomach wakes to roar loudly, telling me to run for it. Go. Get out. Now. (Before you get hurt).
“Guard your heart, it affects everything you do in this life.”
Sometimes I days I feel like I am a real-life Amelia Bedelia–I take things too literally, and yet my mind operates metaphorically. This verse above, however comes from my number one top favorite novel of all time, called Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers. It is based on the biblical story of Hosea. I’ve read the novel from cover to cover four times now and never get tired of the messages found inside because each time I read the story, I experience it differently. I learn something different about human love, agape, God’s plan and His will that goes beyond the kind of plan that I myself am modestly able to comprehend.
Take it from me, existential contemplation is both a fascinating and terrifying web to find yourself caught up in. I have found that it has been leading me to question my own values, life choices, futuristic endeavors and philosophical truths–usually out of fear; a fear of the unknown. A fear of God.
And when I let my free mind wonder its way into this uncharted territory, I’ve found that it wanders towards weird things like conspiracy theories and ancient philosophies that pick apart life, death and purposes outside of my own. Odd, I know. But I think that to some degree, we are all conspiracy theorists of our own kind. Since when did I become such a conspiracy theorist? Was it when Donald Trump became a serious presidential candidate? Or was it somewhere else, somewhere down the line, that I am still uncertain.
Next we have another big idea that’s been buzzing in the back of my mind; fate. Destiny. “Everything happens for a reason.” Really? Well yes, I think that I think so. I’ve been wondering a lot about both of these things though because I’ve been experiencing a whole lot of a certain phenomenon called Deja Vu. Nostalgia. Im not sure if it’s the seasons or the songs I’ve been humming back and forth day and night, but but by now you should know I am unbelievably sentimental about every and anything I come into contact with. I’ve been being awfully reminiscent about all sorts of old things lately, and I just can’t for the life of me understand why.
In reference to the love hate dichotomy written in the title and previously mentioned, I picture this nuance hypothetically as a perpetual teater-totter. It is true that I want more than anything to knock down those big clay walls that I build up over the years and let someone back in. Yet I chicken out every time anyone gets close enough try, or to understand why they were put there in the first place. I’m a rook when it comes to relationships and that in itself is a terrifying thing. This is the point at which the teeter gets tottered. The see gets sawed. And I lie flat imbalanced and clumsy probably humming a sad song, only to shut the doors and withdraw back into my safety net; my shell of recluse solitude.
And yet when I get there, re-situated with solitude, that is also where I begin to crave a deeper connection. That one thing; walls down, faults and sins fully exposed– can’t eat can’t sleep reach for the stars over the moon world series; sort of connection.