ON BEING OPEN-MINDED — Why It’s Such Hard Work

Reflection from April 1st, 2008 @ Age 26


Loving someone despite all their faults and annoying idiosyncrasies is such a curious thing.  I just keep thinking now, about what a jerk Dave used to be at times—and his attitude, this thought that he’s entitled to everything, misunderstanding other’s circumstances.  Misunderstanding other’s circumstances less fortunate than his own.  Or was it obliviousness?  I doubt it.  I don’t think Dave could see what life is like from other, different perspectives than his own.  Or maybe he could, just not with me.  I don’t know what to think.  Yes, I do—I think he was such a jerk a lot of the time with me, but I loved him anyways.  I loved him with all my might and I fought with myself to let him go when he wanted me to let go.  I fought with all my might to let go, and here I am again, holding on, fighting once more to let go.

You know I was just thinking today that my father has such a soft, loving heart.  I find his heart has been hardened, though, from circumstance and life.  He’s not fought to keep it open, he keeps it open enough as is comfortable, but he fights not to open up further than that.  More and more I see everyday what a challenge it is to keep an open heart and open mind.  The world is cold and dark and lonely, and it quite simply beats the f@#king daylights out of you, and perhaps the most difficult endeavor of my life will be, to keep this open heart open wide.

Anyway, Gabby wants to read some of my writing which I thought was really nice, that she’s interested and all.  I’m not sure what the hell pieces I’m gonna share, but I told her when I finish up typing my journals and begin my first read through, I’ll keep an eye out for some particularly poignant prose.  The thought of hearing what she thinks of my writing scares the bejesus out of me!  But I don’t think there’s anyone I would trust more to be open-minded and nonjudgmental about my work.

I like calling my writing my work.  I want to spend my life working if only I can be a writer.  My character is my self.  My experiences are her experiences.  My innermost thoughts are her innermost thoughts.  It helps me sometimes to think of myself as a character in a book.  It’s an odd scenario looking at my own writing from a third party perspective—but it helps in both living and in writing.  In living, if I’m afraid to do something, I’m much more likely to face my fear such that I’ll have something interesting to report.  In writing, I’m way less judgmental about my writing when I view it as the writing of someone else.  Curious, curious!  My habits are most curious!


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