But my thoughts had obviously not translated well into words, because on closer examination two mortally opposed definitions of 'change' emerged and differentiated themselves in my mind. Yes, in my mind there is a great difference between change (in a person, in a life) that is the result of exposure to the elements--change wrought by outside circumstances, beating on the individual, making her conform (or deform), and change that is actually healthy growth--springing from deep desires and making the individual more of whoever she wants to be. To use a shrubbery metaphor, it is the difference between hail damage and swelling buds.
What qualify as "outside circumstances" depends of course partly on attitude. The elements which I feel have whipped me raw are elements to which I willingly, if not happily, submitted myself. It was my own decision to change jobs, switch neighborhoods, become a candidate for an internship, and enter into a business relationship with my in-laws, and yet these experiences have quickly become alien, forced me into unexpected compromises, made me unhappy and guilty in my unhappiness, and so distanced me from myself.
The craving for change is really a craving for growth. It's as if I'm Pa Ingalls, and it is high time to move even further West. I long to finally start work on my manuscript. To tear down the ugly lean-to in the backyard, cut down the moldering pine tree, scrape up the trash, plant apple trees, build raised beds. To begin my own venture--some sort of business, or a magazine. To make more complicated things: tables, socks, sweaters with inset sleeves. To pull of fabulous "gourmet" meals, like my Dad's Julia Child meals. To get a hell of a haircut and once again recognize myself. To speak my mind as truly as I know how. To romance my husband and strengthen my friendships.
I feel that I am growing so slowly, and "changing" so quickly. I keep harping on the same string--even my writing twiddles its thumbs. But, to record a specific example, last year I wrote that nature and the body were my only, overworked, and inappropriate motifs. I knew hardly anything of either. Why could I write about nothing else? I still know hardly anything, but there is a new theme running through the recent poems. (I'll give you a clue: it's the title of the felt books.)
What a blatant case of an inner-April. What about you, friends? I'm reading her poetry and writing letters and trying to make bagels and reaching out as much as I can.