Dr Kathryn Geldard lives in Australia spending time writing, between her home close to the city and her mountain retreat.
She’s not sure but vague words – read when she was going through a recovery of sorts – reminded her of why she wanted to write. She searched her mind flicking through the tissue thin pages and on finding the right one, she remembered.
All her life she had held some ideal image of herself. One that she had assembled from the expectations and consequences of her early years. Over time she had magnified it; gave it authority and, even though it fell short of her fantasy, had proceeded to idolise it anyway. She now had come to realise that worshipping a fragment, as if it were the whole, generally resulted in disaster and explained how her experience of life was one of walking on a tightrope; a circus metaphor that resonated with additional images of riding recklessly on horseback around the ring garbed in jewelled tutus and of whip cracking lion tamers in smart red tuxedo jackets with top hats. She made a note to attend to the circus narrative which seemed to dominate her thoughts, distracting her slightly from the task at hand. Not unpleasant, but creative, she thought. Getting back to the tightrope, if she didn’t fall one way, she fell the other, and each had been equally treacherous. She somehow kept going on this knife-edge, being aware of the dangers and doing her best to keep out of them.
She eventually discovered the universal law that states, the more we try doing the same thing, in the same way, the worse we do the thing. Perseverance furthers but the harder she tried to live the circus life, the worse it became.
Pen poised she began again. Of course. She always started again, and because she repeated the pattern, before she even began, she knew something, or someone would try to stop her.