This morning, among the long grass we were cutting back, my young Portuguese friend suddenly said “An old guy in India told me once ‘don’t share the shit in your head’”. The three of us stood up, got quiet, and gave each other a look of agreement.
My head’s pretty stopped up after nine weeks. I’m not sure if it’s just me, or if it’s a general human thing, but I like to draw others into my whinging and complaining. Perhaps, no matter how petty, it’s the validation and the seeking of partnership. My friend out there in the weeds, who is close to half my age, pulled me up short and shut me up – even before I’d had a chance to open my mouth.
The shit in my head is not to be believed. Those thoughts are hardly objective and subject to all sorts of filters from fatigue to perception. None of it should be trusted – let alone expressed.
I don’t want it to hang around. The longer I allow it to fester, the worse it gets. Why would I want to hold on to something that has absolutely no value – or is damaging to myself and others? I figure what I’ve got to do is both incredibly simple, and almost impossible: Just. Let. It. Go.
That’s alls you gotta do. Yeah, right. If only the process was as easy as typing the words. However, on those few occasions when I’ve actually managed to break on through to the other side, the results have definitely been cleansing.
I really want to finish well here on the farm – no regrets, nothing unresolved. Conveniently, I have to go no further than between my own ears to make that happen.