It's Me Again!

I'm sorry I haven't been posting anything lately - I apologize to my three devoted readers.  :)  Seriously, I don't know who reads this besides my best friend and some people from Russia whom I suspect are some sort of spammers anyway.  But that's okay, I don't really do it for others - I don't think - I mainly do it for myself.  It's a space in which I can be myself, vent, opine, and maybe, just maybe, connect with another soul out there who's going through something similar.  Instead of posting I've been fiddling with the design and text colors.  I was bored with the "French Windows" or whatever my old design template was called.  Now it's appropriately named "Book Club!"

I almost posted a political rant last week after my blood got to boiling over something one of the candidates said.  And then I thought, why put that negativity out there into the universe?  Isn't there already enough negative energy in our society, especially in the political arena?  I held back.  And vented to my husband instead, who capably fulfilled the role of listener for me.

Speaking of my husband, have I told you lately how wonderful he is?  He is the best dad.  Affectionate, playful, caring, funny - all the qualities that made me fall in love with him have just blossomed beyond limits towards our son.  J.'s first word, not surprisingly, is "Dada."  He only says something like "mama" when he's crying!  They are big buddies, which I hope lasts forever. 
 

The trouble with blogging...

How much is too much to share?

I've not been writing lately. I've been in a pissy mood lately. I think the two are related. I was doing dishes the other night, an excellent vehicle for thinking. I was struck by a realization - I'm angry. Not enraged, just a slow-simmering frustration. The act of acknowledging this emotion was temporarily freeing. I wrote a short bit in my journal and felt better the rest of the evening. Relief was fleeting, though. This morning I was my short-tempered, frazzled self again.


I don't want to write (here) about the source of my frustration - and that's the problem I have with blogging. I read blogs in which people share so much personal information that I can't help but wonder how their family members, co-workers, and friends stand it. This blog was begun in an attempt to get myself unstuck and to get my pen moving across the page again. I can say it worked on both fronts - until now. I don't really know who all reads my blog, who gives a damn at all about what I say, but something just doesn't feel right about putting details of my life out there for public consumption.

Seems like more and more people want to put everything out there these days. I'm on Facebook, but I'm trying to wean myself off of it. I guess I'm getting paranoid in my old age, but I just can't help but wonder what all this over-sharing is doing to our society, to our kids. I thank GOD that we didn't have Facebook and smart phones when I was growing up! (It's bad enough that high school classmates of mine put old pictures of us on Facebook - why?!?) I know I sound like a curmudgeon, and sometimes I feel like one. But I'd rather be a curmudgeon than addicted to gadgets. That's just me.

So why am I blogging, you ask? Good question. If I can't write about what's bugging me, then maybe I shouldn't write publicly at all. Well, I'll have to contemplate that one. There is room out there for a mostly positive blog, right? They don't all have to be navel-gazing downers or avenues of expressing frustration. So maybe I'll stick to the light stuff in the future. I'm pondering.

In any case, this mood I've been in has to stop. My new motto is: SCREW IT. I'd say something more emphatic but I'm trying to keep it PG-13. Scared of flying to Oregon in a month? Screw it, you can't live your life in fear. Worried about cutbacks at the library? Can't do a damn thing about it, so screw it. Don't feel like going to the gym? Screw it, go anyway, you'll feel better! I think it's gonna work. Bad mood or no, life rolls on. I am so lucky compared to so many. I have my health, my husband has his health, I have wonderful friends, I have a good job, I am blessed to be married to my true love. Goodness abounds! All that stuff that weighs me down, makes me frustrated and tired and bleak - Screw. It.

Return

God, I haven't written anything in ages! How do I feel about that? Slightly guilty, a bit anxious, but otherwise... okay. I guess I've been following the dictates of my blog's title: I've been doing things. Maybe I haven't been carving out time for writing, but that doesn't mean I've been ignoring my spirit, or things that make my spirit soar. Since I wrote last I've had my "staycation," in which I spent 11 happy days gardening, reading, watching "Glee", organizing our office, going to the gym, enjoying time with my husband, and seeing friends. It was restful and good, and I felt like I made wise use of my time. I read something by Anne Lamott a couple of days ago about how we use our time. And I read something a while back by my beloved Sylvia Boorstein in which she quoted her mother, saying, "You won't get to do this day over." This idea rang in my head and still reverberates. Being awake to your life is the key to happiness, I'm convinced. Awake enough to make deliberate choices about how you want to spend your time. It's so fragile, this life, so fleeting and bittersweet. My daily endeavors are to remember to be present. Remember to celebrate goodness. Remember to be kind. Remember that I am a creative person, whether or not I'm writing. It is still there, this flow of words that runs through me cold and clear like a spring. It is good to take time to dip my hands in the water every now and then.

Blog First, Think Later

Do you, like me, have all these "shoulds" running into one another in your brain? You know, like, "I should really call X with whom I haven't spoken in weeks," or "I should really organize my important papers." I should clean out my closets. I should dust. I should go see a dermatologist. I should wash the car. I think women are especially vulnerable to the "shoulds." I don't know if it's nature or nurture, but I suspect both. I know that my husband is one of the most blithely unhurried people I know. Not that he doesn't care about things, but that he is able to relax when it's time to relax and get jiggy with it when it's time to get jiggy. I'm more likely to fret when I'm trying to relax, thinking about all the things I need to be doing. And then when I'm doing things I need to be doing, I'm thinking about how much I'd love to relax! It's ridiculous. But I'm sure I'm not alone.

I'm not going to let this blog be one of those "shoulds." My temptation is to let writing slide in favor of all those chores, or all the time-suckers that are sort of fun, like watching TV or reading. But I know what happens to me when I go for too long without writing. I get nervous, I start doubting myself, doubting whether or not I have anything worth saying. And I put it off one more day. Meanwhile, I start having even more conversations with myself, start writing blogs in my head without getting them down anywhere, and I get twitchier and twitchier. Argh. No bueno.

Today is a day to write. Tomorrow is a day to write. The day after that is a day to write. The point to just to do it, to think later. Make it automatic, like brushing my teeth or drinking my morning coffee. After all, it's elemental to who I am. Why fight it, why run from it, just because I'm afraid? I didn't run away from the challenge of the 5K race this past weekend. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and felt a rush like I'd never felt before when I crossed that finish line. I ran in 38 minutes, which is great considering it's my first time. Training for that race never felt like a "should." It felt like honoring myself.

I think magazines are especially dangerous to women, in that each issue holds out the promise of a better, shinier you inside. Read it and you'll be a better mom, a better wife, a better cook, skinnier, and with expertly applied makeup. I have been the Magazine Queen in my lifetime. But I'm kind of over them now. It feels good at age almost 33 to say, "This is who I am. I am quirky and kind of round and like to wear jeans all the time and have hair that doesn't do anything I want it to." I wish I could have found this self-acceptance earlier, but I guess it doesn't work that way. I still have my days when I do nothing but beat myself up, but I'm getting better about cutting myself some slack. The "shoulds" won't get this woman down for long. Who's with me?

Like Prego...

I'm feeling antsy about writing. I was in a groove for about a month or so, and now I feel... empty. I lack words. I sit down with my notebook and I scratch out symbols that become words, but they don't go anywhere, they don't mean anything. I feel empty, and it's frustrating.

My life, however, feels very full. Since I've begun this blog, I've baked a pie from scratch, tried a kickboxing class (actually two!), jogged in my neighborhood, started training for a 5K. I think I'm going to try knitting next. And I forsee a river kayak trip in my future! The world has opened up for me - and why not? I'm healthy, thank God. I have a supportive spouse and supportive friends. The glass is definitely half full.

But. With me, there's always a but. I am a creature of moods. Last night I complained to the hubby that I wasn't writing anything and was starting to feel panicked. He said to me, "You've got to know that's it's still in there." I am trying to remember and feel his words. The spark is still in me. Sometimes it might hide. I have to just keep on writing. Just do it, don't think, just write. Writing has opened up my life! I can't quit now.

Spring

Words don't come unless you
invite them in,
make a soft, inviting place
for them to rest.
Open the shades all the way and
let in the light. Let it
warm all the dark, secret places
that have grown cold with neglect.
All this hiding, scurrying like a squirrel
has made you small, pale, peevish.
Words float back in through
cracks in windows, under the door.
You can't keep renewal out forever.
Spring shoots its way up through
cold ground and blossoms at your feet.
Know enough to hold on, to notice
the sky above you and the birds
swirling over your head.
Hear them. Don't think.
Be present.
The light and noise and warmth of rebirth
will wrap around you and make you new again,
make you write again.
Even in the dead of winter you can
smell the words
unfurling beneath your feet.

The Vessel

I've been reading Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. With my A.D.D. these days I like the short sections that I can read for a few minutes, put down, and ponder. A lot of what she writes really resonates with me, but I can't get one paragraph out of my mind. It gives me cause for hope and terrifies me simultaneously. She writes:

"Don't identify too strongly with your work. Stay fluid behind those black and white words. They are not you. They were a great moment going through you. A moment you were awake enough to write down and capture."

I love the idea that you are the vehicle for juicy ideas and well-crafted sentences. It means that if you are open, present, and practicing, good things can emerge from your pen at any moment. I read published writers say again and again that one of the most important things about writing is the actual sitting down to do it. From my own experience, it makes me crazy to have words floating around in my head instead of written on the page. And even when I don't feel particularly inspired, occasionally something comes out when I make myself sit down and give it a shot.
I wrote for a very long time, years and years of my life. I identified myself as a writer. And then I stopped. I didn't feel like I had anything to say that was worth reading. I'm sad for those wasted years. Who knows what "great moments going through" me I missed because I wasn't open enough, or brave enough, to try?

Goldberg's words send a little jolt of fear through me, though... who am I? I can't be those poems that I wrote all those years ago. I can't be the little girl sitting on a red slide at recess, writing a poem about my grandfather. Those moments came, and they were good, and they left. And they're not me now. I'm 32 years old, almost 33. I have to make the time and space for new great moments to come through.