Habit, Routine, and Moving Forward

I was face-painting at my high school's Dry Grad this past Saturday, and in my kit I have a blue recipe box, that I was taught to use once at a Solo Show writing workshop, that has index cards with ideas. I keep face painting ideas there to show those getting painted for inspiration about "what they want". I noticed in it a card that held the names and ideas of the people I had encountered when I worked at Club X. The first name on the back of the card was Colin, and the second Darryl. Darryl was the boss. Colin was a longtime employee -- suspended in the patterns of an unconsciously mediocre life. I loved and cared for him dearly. Next to his name I have written " routines, the prince, e, cut weed".
  Literally every Friday after he finished work, for the past 10 years, Colin got off work, and walked the 8 blocks to The Prince in St. Kilda, had four pints of beer, smoked three joints (that were mostly rolled tobacco with little sprinkling bits of bud -- not enough to make up a quarter joint in my opinion...), flirted with the male bartenders,gossiped, watched people play pool, occasionally danced -- bobbing with tight hips, knees together. On Saturday, Colin woke up late, had brunch alone on his patio, got dressed, took half a tab of ecstasy at 2 hour intervals, and danced the night away, I neither know where nor how. Sunday, I think, was washing up day.
  On many occasions, I joined Colin after work, or he me on a Friday night. I enjoyed our connection, and friendship - from seemingly unconnected lives, needing nothing of each other but company, and enjoying whatever the other had to offer. Colin was a terribly nervous seeming man. He didn't stutter, but hunched in, with his hands holding each other close to his heart, or flopping about in front of him to make a point, which openly communicated his desire to become as invisible as possible. Occasionally, he would have a bender weekend, come in energetically reeking of shame, and endure the most horrific cystic skin outbreaks (requiring antibiotics) the following week(s). I forget what he would explain away the skin condition as, how embarrassed he was about it, and what caused it (which never had any link whatsoever to his recent indulgent escapade) but when it came down to it, I wished he would recognize the link and do something about it. Not about the behaviour, which is all one to me, but about feeling so deeply disgusted in himself for the behaviour. Instead, I sympathized with his physical pain, assured him it wasn't too awful, and that he was loved and cared for.
    My boss, Darryl, was (and is; I learn today that he's on FB) an obese, bald-headed, goatee-ed, motorcycle riding, teddybear of a man, who was a straight shooter, had learned to control a tempestuous spirit and had worked for Club X for many years, ascending to the rank of manager. He had a beautiful, sexual wife who immediately brings the colour burgundy to mind. He had Adult-Onset Diabetes, and continued to eat and drink (the same things everyday) in portion sizes equivalent to his volume. His legs were really bugging him. He wore compression socks and was dealing with painful ulcers on his leg, which shocked me one day to see -- the blotchy thick skin on desperate limbs -- as he displayed his chronic condition. But day after day, in he came, to sit in the booth and intake calories that were crying out for change.
   It was easy for me to see the patterns of these men's "stuckness". Yea. It's often easy for many of us to see where others are stuck, what they are doing that isn't working for them. I don't think it's often we come right out and tell the person (though maybe there are many who take pleasure in owning that duty), and if we did, we can expect the listener's ear is not primed for such an attack, and the message will be lost in the insult.
We have to be ready to change, through dissatisfaction, and already be asking the question. Then, the answer can appear.
   I say this, perhaps, as I am asking questions and waiting for my own answers. I am looking for the ways that I am stuck, and the little voice I so often repress, who is quietly crying out for help, needs some serious attention, a light to shine into the shadow, illuminating the closet. There are no killers here.
  Why am I cycling around, finding myself suspended, unable to really burst forward with the brilliance and potential I want to inherit as my gift to the world, my gift of purpose. Surely I'm not here to sit in a cold house, get high, dream about things that don't come to pass, feel lonely and disconnected, and have a visceral reaction to every time the phone rings.
  I know I love coming up with ideas and working towards them. I know I love research, and the outdoors, swimming, hiking, cycling. I know I love to play music and sing, to design, to play in the garden, to write.
Why do I put a million conditions before doing them? Why do I always feel "too poor" to do the things that would bring me the greatest joy? Why do I need weed to get through my life?

   Astrologically, we are at the start of a Grand Water Trine, which I know only enough about to say it is a time for our deepest emotional healing to come about. I recently met and connected with a talented, beautiful, and uproarious woman whose path and wounds comfortingly match my own. Something of those unhealed echos of the past is stirring, and I feel a bit like I have fallen in love with myself, motivated by how wonderful I think she is, and feeling like we are one and the same. It still looks like an awful lot of emotional work in front of me, but my sense of hope and positive outlook lead me to believe it will be easier than my worries allow me to believe. Regardless, I don't want to find myself in the same cold basement ten years from now, suspended in never doing what my heart truly believes I'm here for.