Surely, we’re in charge of the things that are personally important to us. Beyond the sway of circumstance and the tilted plane of habit, we have red lines we won’t cross and eye-contact with the one who looks back at us from the mirror. We feel responsible for the choices we make and for respecting the values that underlie them.
I noticed this morning how much I rely on electronic devices. Before I sat down with my first cup of coffee—produced by a Mr. Coffee machine–I filled and turned on our distiller (which allows me to keep two humidifiers going in the dry winter months), I topped off both humidifiers, loaded and started both the dishwasher and the clothes washer, plugged my cell phone into a charger, and heard the furnace fan start up, triggered by the thermostat. Every one of those devices operate independently of me once I start them up.
Since I live in this modern world, I rely on technologies whose operations are as hidden from me as the circuitry of my desktop computer.
Meanwhile, I try to maintain integrity of body, mind, heart and spirit, and to be a conscious human being in this technologically-advanced, spiritually-confused society.
I was working on my second mug of coffee, when I began to notice that it isn’t just electronic devices, which I rely on to clean, heat, humidify, and communicate, that operate apart from my awareness. I seem to have a similar relationship with physical, mental and psychological operations of my own experience. Thoughts, feelings and perceptions also show up on their own, like products off a factory assembly line.
There doesn’t seem to be much benefit in lamenting the patterns of my mental and emotional life, since I am dependent on them in order to function in the world.
There have been two areas in my recent experience that have caught me up in processes largely out of my control. Since their outcomes affect me, I have tried to keep a balance between remaining engaged whenever I can and letting things run their course.
One of them—which was resolved just this past Tuesday—arrived on our doorstep when we were notified in mid-November that our health-insurance was about to end. We were given two alternatives: 1/ enroll in a new Post Office healthcare system that doesn’t accept our Presbyterian medical services; 2/ enroll in Medicare Part B, which does accept our current doctor and associated medical connections. We applied for Medicare Part B.
For the next six weeks we didn’t know if our applications had even been received and whether on Jan 1st, we would have no health insurance. Then, on the very last day of 2024, I received an e-mail announcing that we now have Medicare Part B. I don’t know if our inquiries helped, but it took patience to keep us in balance while we waited.
The other area in which I have taken a path into the unknown, whose outcome is still in limbo, was the decision to publish my new novel with Prime Publishing. Since we can afford it, I agreed to not only publish the new book but to revive three earlier books that became unavailable when their publisher died a few years ago. Prime Publishing is organized in a way that I can only communicate with one person. She has promptly sent me an invoice every time I agreed to a service. For instance, I purchased a Christmas marketing blitz for all four books.
Unlike with the Christmas miracle of healthcare coverage appearing in the nick of time, I haven’t heard from Prime Publishing for more than two weeks. At the current pace of feedback from their editorial team, the offer of a Christmas marketing splash has become a tentative hope that my new book will be available by February.
I don’t mind that there appears to be no target date for the publication of my books. I imagine that a marketing campaign–originally presented to me as a pre-Christmas blitz– can also be effective in January or February. But adjusting to the sense that I don’t seem to have a choice but to wait for further editing feedback on my manuscripts, which I can only hope someone is still working on, I also seem to have no choice but to be patient until the next opportunity arrives in my e-mail for me to jump into action.
The difference between depending on health care and my life as a writer is that the former is helping keep my body alive and the latter is allowing my mind and heart to live with hope.
That distinction feels appropriate. I enjoy my life enough that I want to stick around for as long as I can; and my recent novel, in which I found a tentative path of hope for our society, has given me a vehicle for wanting our world to stick around, in good health, long after I have left the stage.