I don't often write posts like this. It is more of an inquiry than anything else.
Tonight I read a story in Sex God, by Rob Bell about a wedding where the couple walks out into a field and lets go of balloons. The gesture symbolized them letting go of their pasts in order to create a new future together. A couple of years later, the couple divorced.
I have probably read this story more times than any other passage in this book. It crushes me. It twists in the deep and I want to press my hand against the story and make it new, let it end with balloons bouncing against the bottoms of clouds, finding their way through a great maze of atmosphere.
But the story doesn't end that way.
I look at my story, my head lost in the clouds for a few moments, hope snuggling in the soft stem of me, and a few moments later the realization that everything is still a mess--my room strewn with clothing and records and books and glasses where water used to sit and gradually evaporate; the passenger side of my car splashed in mud; one job ending soon; the world growing cold and desperate; my inability to focus on anything; how very empty and cold my hands are and how my time seems not to have done a thing about that.
But then, some days, with good organic stories, lovers still choosing one another, delicious kitchen experiments to long winding road songs, smiling strangers, art on the street, a look caught before it was too late, a honest word spilt finally despite the risk, a walk in the leaves, a rocking chair, sitting in the mess and being okay, small successes, surprising conversations that last forever and stay fresh, slow movements, coffee-some days these things make me wonder how far down or up we really are.
And is it really discipline that gets us there? What about us hopeless cases? What about the ones who despair so quickly? What about the ones who live so far down in their minds that even the light hurts when it finds them, and it is so much easier to shrink back, to fall away?
I don't want to say that we should all just lay in bed and wait for God to come to us with breakfast on a tray, an invitation to work at our dream job folded nicely next to the orange juice, a flower from some idealistic boyfriend smilingly perched in a vase. I know that to live is to risk. To get anywhere implies jumping from enormous terrifying heights.
But, is there room for Something to help us fall, help us make our beds in the morning and actually apply for jobs, be strong enough to risk relationship, meet the world and test the soft skin of its wounds with our trembling fingers? I've often asked God for help but never believed he/she/whatever would really be interested in lending a hand. In fact, I doubt I've ever believed he/she/whatever felt that I needed help.
When I think about it, I find it fascinating when people say, "We could only have accomplished ____ with God's help," or, "God, we need you to help us be _________ and _______ kind of person."
I know that it is in desperation that we realize a lot of things--that we delve into the dark waters to find the ropes that might (just might) lead to something important, something that would make us feel okay about coming up for air.
I feel like I need something to help me along. I don't trust life, anymore. I don't "believe" in life. And in a way, I don't "believe" in myself. I want to learn to like myself, and to trust myself in some senses, but to rely entirely on myself is beginning to feel impossible. I know many of you might not agree with that statement. Perhaps we'd have to discuss it in person, for me to really make my point. But, I am terribly fallible. And I'm trying to believe in Something or Someone, who might not be as crazy as me.
It's fascinating how the mere thought of setting some of this weight into God's hands makes me feel more capable. I still can't logically explain it, because I can't prove God, but for me, right now, this is what has to be. I have to hand it over, because otherwise, I will drown.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Better Story
I felt like such a rage-aholic today. Such a ferocious wet blanket. And I indulged this, yes, with Natalie Merchant songs about resigning, stepping down from the task it is sometimes to keep moving on a dark day. I threw things around my room--paintings, drawings, piles of books, sweaters. And I swore in such a way that would make Eminem hide in my closet whispering prayers that the storm would calm and I would light a joint or take a sleeping pill.
Why, you might ask, was I such a hurricane of a human being? Honestly, it's difficult remembering. I have the slightest cold. I was going to have to work outside in the rain with my disgusting cold cinching my sinuses and clouding my brain, my hands numb and achey. The internet went out at my house, and I didn't do all the things I wanted to (like putting together portfolios, improving cover letters and resumes, finding businesses to actually approach about positions). I think that last reason was most of it. And the fact that I am so deeply disappointed in myself ninety-two percent of the time.
It was the lack of doing those things I had planned on doing, and the sudden leap from my not finishing those things to the thought that I am an entirely irresponsible human being, that I am ugly--my hair making sloppy shapes in the humid air, and the thought that my ugliness coupled with my irresponsibility tripleted with my terror of approaching men would inevitably lead me to a life of loneliness and poverty.
And I packed my things, loudly. I drove depressed and gray and full of self-pity out to Grand Rapids, to the Bitter End. I listened to Natalie Merchant, and I didn't feel so alone. I remembered a moment when the girls I used to work with at the cafe in Zeeland hugged me in the back room and started crying when they saw my tears about something my dad had done. I felt a little warmer. I remembered other moments where people were super-humanly empathetic.
Those memories redeemed life for me, despite Natalie Merchant (who only has one remotely positive/hopeful song on that whole album). And then The Bitter End coffee house. Looking now through the front windows, rain settled in luminescent drops, leaves limp and wet, green as ever against the dark oak of this place, I feel settled. Danielle called me and told me that she can't imagine me enraged (though she's such a wonderful friend that she really listened and believed that I am capable of rage). She told me what she knows of me. She was very kind, for the most part. I actually surprised myself by not contesting the nice things she was saying. I listened. I studied her words, and took them like water.
Chase told me a few days ago that he thinks most of what I think are my problems, are merely perceptions I have of myself that are entirely incorrect. Nobody apparently sees what I see of myself. This fascinates me, because I've always thought I was good at knowing myself. Apparently, I'm wrong. I'm glad I'm wrong.
Sometimes, we have to listen to our friends. And we have to believe people. Really believe them. We have to sit in their words and let them come into our skin. We so often are lost in our misconceptions of ourselves, that we don't live in the great goodness that lives in us--we don't use our gifts, because we deny them.
I just finished Donald Miller's new book, A Million Miles in a Hundred Years, about our lives as stories--about living them as if we are "graceful participants," rather than, "unwilling victims."
At one point he writes, "Not living a beter story would be like deciding to die, deciding to walk around numb until you die, and it's not normal to want to die."
In all honesty, there have been quite a few times within the past few years that I have wanted to die. I have wanted, sometimes desperately, to be out of it. To be done. To have the pressure off, the burden lifted. Even though I'm terrified to say that because I'm afraid of how I'll be percieved, I say it, because I know there are plenty of people who feel the same. Don's book, as well as my beautiful, generous friends, have really made me want to live the better story, which may simply mean living into me, into whatever good I am bestowed with.
I love thinking that perhaps the better story is here, and we are already the better characters, we just don't know it yet.
Why, you might ask, was I such a hurricane of a human being? Honestly, it's difficult remembering. I have the slightest cold. I was going to have to work outside in the rain with my disgusting cold cinching my sinuses and clouding my brain, my hands numb and achey. The internet went out at my house, and I didn't do all the things I wanted to (like putting together portfolios, improving cover letters and resumes, finding businesses to actually approach about positions). I think that last reason was most of it. And the fact that I am so deeply disappointed in myself ninety-two percent of the time.
It was the lack of doing those things I had planned on doing, and the sudden leap from my not finishing those things to the thought that I am an entirely irresponsible human being, that I am ugly--my hair making sloppy shapes in the humid air, and the thought that my ugliness coupled with my irresponsibility tripleted with my terror of approaching men would inevitably lead me to a life of loneliness and poverty.
And I packed my things, loudly. I drove depressed and gray and full of self-pity out to Grand Rapids, to the Bitter End. I listened to Natalie Merchant, and I didn't feel so alone. I remembered a moment when the girls I used to work with at the cafe in Zeeland hugged me in the back room and started crying when they saw my tears about something my dad had done. I felt a little warmer. I remembered other moments where people were super-humanly empathetic.
Those memories redeemed life for me, despite Natalie Merchant (who only has one remotely positive/hopeful song on that whole album). And then The Bitter End coffee house. Looking now through the front windows, rain settled in luminescent drops, leaves limp and wet, green as ever against the dark oak of this place, I feel settled. Danielle called me and told me that she can't imagine me enraged (though she's such a wonderful friend that she really listened and believed that I am capable of rage). She told me what she knows of me. She was very kind, for the most part. I actually surprised myself by not contesting the nice things she was saying. I listened. I studied her words, and took them like water.
Chase told me a few days ago that he thinks most of what I think are my problems, are merely perceptions I have of myself that are entirely incorrect. Nobody apparently sees what I see of myself. This fascinates me, because I've always thought I was good at knowing myself. Apparently, I'm wrong. I'm glad I'm wrong.
Sometimes, we have to listen to our friends. And we have to believe people. Really believe them. We have to sit in their words and let them come into our skin. We so often are lost in our misconceptions of ourselves, that we don't live in the great goodness that lives in us--we don't use our gifts, because we deny them.
I just finished Donald Miller's new book, A Million Miles in a Hundred Years, about our lives as stories--about living them as if we are "graceful participants," rather than, "unwilling victims."
At one point he writes, "Not living a beter story would be like deciding to die, deciding to walk around numb until you die, and it's not normal to want to die."
In all honesty, there have been quite a few times within the past few years that I have wanted to die. I have wanted, sometimes desperately, to be out of it. To be done. To have the pressure off, the burden lifted. Even though I'm terrified to say that because I'm afraid of how I'll be percieved, I say it, because I know there are plenty of people who feel the same. Don's book, as well as my beautiful, generous friends, have really made me want to live the better story, which may simply mean living into me, into whatever good I am bestowed with.
I love thinking that perhaps the better story is here, and we are already the better characters, we just don't know it yet.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Space
I am imagining the ideal, now. If I could make my life into whatever I wanted it to be at this moment, this is what it would look like. It would be very very quiet. Still. I imagine very vibrant grass. Grass and feet, and wind sounds, and maybe the soft buzz of traffic--of life around, maybe a slider door opening or closing. But no words. I imagine a very clean apartment, all white walls and wood floor. I imagine curling my knees into my chest in my rocking chair near a window and not having to talk my shoulders down--not having to make myself learn how to love who I am, how to accept any goodness, how to believe that it is okay for me to be fallible.
I wrote in the margin of some book recently that it is awful being a perfectionist who is so goddam imperfect. It is painful. It feels like suffering (while I write that, I feel guilty, because my brain is rushing into images of people who are truly suffering. And the next thought is: WOW, am I capable of not being hard on myself?)
I want my own apartment--my OWN--like nothing else in this world right now. I want it like a lover. I want it like something that's always there--by my side--available for me to fall into, fold into, find myself in. I want cleanliness and SPACE. Any space. Space for me. For my voice. Space for becoming new.
The past two days have brought that thought into focus as well. Becoming new. I need to be new. Fresh. I need to make who I am. I need to choose who I am. I think I have victimized myself so much lately. I feel victimized by my financial situations. I feel victimized by the job market. I blame everything. I feel strung out. I feel wound. And I am so depleted. But I also feel guilty. I know I'm to blame for the place I'm in. But, I also want to concede that it is hard. It is super hard to be everything you want to be, and to find a "real" job in this economy, and to change a lot of habits that you've functioned in for years and years and basically your entire life.
I want to be new, though. I want to stop feeling victimized or guilty. I want to start feeling in control--feeling vibrant--feeling energized. I want to want to be around people. I want to feel even remotely free.
And I really really would like to start engaging spirituality. I want to pray. I want to want to pray, and really open myself to the possibility that I am worth anything at all. I want to believe that God is the opposite of all of my skewed perceptions. I want to believe that he/she/it is trustworthy. I want to believe that there is a better plan, a better way than the one I've been on--the one that has me hopeless, dark, exhausted, and furious.
For example, I went nuts this morning because my dog puked on the floor. Seriously, if I were a parent right now, I would be terrified that I would go nuts, get angry, and my kids would become seriously anxious people like me, always waiting for the ax to fall. Just so you know...I did not even yell at my dog. I just wanted to. I wanted to scream and rip the curtains and stomp holes in the floor. And of course, anger is always indicative of something deeper. It wasn't the dog. It's this place I'm in. This scary, unpredictable, guilt-ridden, place I'm in.
I want to get out. I want it. I want respite and hope and light and silence and strength and time and space to fail and grow and heal and explore.
I want to not feel immature for it either. I don't think I want to run from the real world. I want to work hard. I want to care. I want to be active. But I want to stop running in circles. I want my brain to take on calmer waves. I want to make changes. I want to engage in whatever's beneath or above or invisibly active in this world.
May you all find hope and silence and time and lightness.
P.S. I had an interview this week. I'm trying desperately not to bank on this as my way out of crazyness.
I wrote in the margin of some book recently that it is awful being a perfectionist who is so goddam imperfect. It is painful. It feels like suffering (while I write that, I feel guilty, because my brain is rushing into images of people who are truly suffering. And the next thought is: WOW, am I capable of not being hard on myself?)
I want my own apartment--my OWN--like nothing else in this world right now. I want it like a lover. I want it like something that's always there--by my side--available for me to fall into, fold into, find myself in. I want cleanliness and SPACE. Any space. Space for me. For my voice. Space for becoming new.
The past two days have brought that thought into focus as well. Becoming new. I need to be new. Fresh. I need to make who I am. I need to choose who I am. I think I have victimized myself so much lately. I feel victimized by my financial situations. I feel victimized by the job market. I blame everything. I feel strung out. I feel wound. And I am so depleted. But I also feel guilty. I know I'm to blame for the place I'm in. But, I also want to concede that it is hard. It is super hard to be everything you want to be, and to find a "real" job in this economy, and to change a lot of habits that you've functioned in for years and years and basically your entire life.
I want to be new, though. I want to stop feeling victimized or guilty. I want to start feeling in control--feeling vibrant--feeling energized. I want to want to be around people. I want to feel even remotely free.
And I really really would like to start engaging spirituality. I want to pray. I want to want to pray, and really open myself to the possibility that I am worth anything at all. I want to believe that God is the opposite of all of my skewed perceptions. I want to believe that he/she/it is trustworthy. I want to believe that there is a better plan, a better way than the one I've been on--the one that has me hopeless, dark, exhausted, and furious.
For example, I went nuts this morning because my dog puked on the floor. Seriously, if I were a parent right now, I would be terrified that I would go nuts, get angry, and my kids would become seriously anxious people like me, always waiting for the ax to fall. Just so you know...I did not even yell at my dog. I just wanted to. I wanted to scream and rip the curtains and stomp holes in the floor. And of course, anger is always indicative of something deeper. It wasn't the dog. It's this place I'm in. This scary, unpredictable, guilt-ridden, place I'm in.
I want to get out. I want it. I want respite and hope and light and silence and strength and time and space to fail and grow and heal and explore.
I want to not feel immature for it either. I don't think I want to run from the real world. I want to work hard. I want to care. I want to be active. But I want to stop running in circles. I want my brain to take on calmer waves. I want to make changes. I want to engage in whatever's beneath or above or invisibly active in this world.
May you all find hope and silence and time and lightness.
P.S. I had an interview this week. I'm trying desperately not to bank on this as my way out of crazyness.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Pulling Focus
Can I keep the clouds and rain and grey suspended here, over Michigan, please? Just a few more days? I am at Nosh, mocha half-empty, Bon Iver sweeping in my ears, mind moving in to focus on the words, "You're love will be, safe with me,"...and moving out again, to the parking lot, the book open beneath my elbows.
I am reading The Artist's Way. Slowing down this time to really take this in. To take these words on as if an identity, a new, more active, fresh, name. I just read this line that really reached into the swirling chaos of myself for a moment. It reads, "In movie terms, we slowly pull focus, lifting up and away from being embedded in our lives until we attain an overview."
Last night I opened the two art journals I've made over the past couple of years. I read the sloppy ink spotted scrawles of, "Today is sun strung--light linking everything. Today is my sister laughing just inside and the thought of building a fire for lunch. It is free. I feel that--YES. Free slipping around in tank tops, through paint. There is some pain--some soft dark lingering. But for now, this: the paint, sun, Bonnie Prince Billy, some hope, is enough."
I read over other pages, examined the pictures I glued in, the spray paint spattering, the lists of places to go, of things to see: whales, cacti, a real snow topped mountain.
I felt like I was looking at myself, from far away. And I was smiling. I was proud of this person. I did not consider her job situation or her level of discipline, or whether she can maintain a clean and organized closet. I did not consider how she might be terribly absent minded and worn out and even awful at taking care of valuable things. I simply liked her, because she was this fresh, wide, lit-up, person.
It was nice. It was very good for me, because I've felt incredibly inadequate lately. It's been impossible for me to finish cover letters or resumes. It's been so hard for me to actually doooooo these things, because I'm terrified. I've accidentally gone to work at the wrong fruit stands. I've forgotten I had to work at all. I feel like I'm losing it. Like I'm just falling out. But, last night, as I struggled to sleep, feeling like I'll never get anything right, like I'm on a downward spiral and I have no idea if I can regain footing, or if I have the will, I picked up these journals, and I found myself in them.
Today I sent out my resume and cover letter at last to one organization. And I started reading this book again. And I wrote a draft of a poem, and I'll be going into work in an hour. And I am proud of myself.
I hope you have the chance, a slice of time to pull back from the present, and look at it all, and love it in a silly, deep way. May you find that you are alight, and that all of these terrifying, risky things are gifts. Right now, they are gifts. And here you are, their wrapping crinkling in the palm of your hand.
I am reading The Artist's Way. Slowing down this time to really take this in. To take these words on as if an identity, a new, more active, fresh, name. I just read this line that really reached into the swirling chaos of myself for a moment. It reads, "In movie terms, we slowly pull focus, lifting up and away from being embedded in our lives until we attain an overview."
Last night I opened the two art journals I've made over the past couple of years. I read the sloppy ink spotted scrawles of, "Today is sun strung--light linking everything. Today is my sister laughing just inside and the thought of building a fire for lunch. It is free. I feel that--YES. Free slipping around in tank tops, through paint. There is some pain--some soft dark lingering. But for now, this: the paint, sun, Bonnie Prince Billy, some hope, is enough."
I read over other pages, examined the pictures I glued in, the spray paint spattering, the lists of places to go, of things to see: whales, cacti, a real snow topped mountain.
I felt like I was looking at myself, from far away. And I was smiling. I was proud of this person. I did not consider her job situation or her level of discipline, or whether she can maintain a clean and organized closet. I did not consider how she might be terribly absent minded and worn out and even awful at taking care of valuable things. I simply liked her, because she was this fresh, wide, lit-up, person.
It was nice. It was very good for me, because I've felt incredibly inadequate lately. It's been impossible for me to finish cover letters or resumes. It's been so hard for me to actually doooooo these things, because I'm terrified. I've accidentally gone to work at the wrong fruit stands. I've forgotten I had to work at all. I feel like I'm losing it. Like I'm just falling out. But, last night, as I struggled to sleep, feeling like I'll never get anything right, like I'm on a downward spiral and I have no idea if I can regain footing, or if I have the will, I picked up these journals, and I found myself in them.
Today I sent out my resume and cover letter at last to one organization. And I started reading this book again. And I wrote a draft of a poem, and I'll be going into work in an hour. And I am proud of myself.
I hope you have the chance, a slice of time to pull back from the present, and look at it all, and love it in a silly, deep way. May you find that you are alight, and that all of these terrifying, risky things are gifts. Right now, they are gifts. And here you are, their wrapping crinkling in the palm of your hand.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Heroism
The view right now out these windows is almost pixilated. Rain is on it's way--is so close to bursting right out of the air. I am dreaming up things. I am making plans to accomplish these things. I want to buy a web design book. I want to expand my areas of knowledge. I want to write some very influential people in my life (and out of it--one, I hardly know, but I feel like writing her anyway).
I'm reading this book (which you should definitely pick up whether you are artistic or not at all) called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. This book is recovering me from a lot of destructive, negative thinking and is taking me into the mindset that I am allowed to create, and that my creativity (my art, my life, my personality) brings about good. This book is empowering me to find the roots of some of my more depressing feelings and beliefs and put those un-worked-through experiences to bed so I can wake up and move on.
These new notions are also causing me to really appreciate spirituality even more. I like the idea of the "New Country," Henri Nouwen writes about in his masterpiece, The Inner Voice of Love. He describes the place we need to get to in our lives: a place of peace, of acceptance and love for ourselves and others, a deep appreciation of the good all around us, and a striving to bring light to spaces that are suffering terribly from deep darkness. Most of all, I suppose the "New Country" is really a place of trust. It becomes a reality for those who learn to trust that there is good somewhere inside of them, that perhaps there is a good God who is active and trustworthy.
I think the most difficult thing for me to do is trust. I just can't. I have friends who have massaged my shoulders before and could tell you about the massive knots that make themselves in my muscles, in my soft, tensing fabric. I am not always active in my life--pursuing things that would boost my financial situation or bring me peace of mind. Instead, I am always worrying. I don't believe in anything. I apply for positions half-heartedly because I don't believe any good will come of it anyway. I am terrified. And I am exhausted from what being terrified most of the time (even subconsciously--hence the bazillions of knots in my back I am typically unaware of until someone touches my shoulders) does to me. And I need time alone. But I feel guilty wanting that because I still don't have a full-time job, and I still haven't paid back all my debts, and I am not the best friend in the world and feel like I should be laying down my life for the people who are always there for me. But this is the trap. This is the scary place you get to where all of your muscles can't even knot up anymore because they've gotten so tense their material is unable to bind up, but exists more like concrete plates mashing up and down and side to side. I need to rest. I need to believe in Something. I need to believe in Something that I can trust--and deep down--deep deep--I know that this is possible. I need to believe in myself--that I am equipped with incredible power. I need to trust myself.
So, I write this not only for myself--because I haven't vented in a while. I also write this because I know a lot of people are feeling the same way. We are exhausted. In this economy it really feels like there is no hope. In this world...in this screwed up self...it often feels like there's no hope. I've been visiting sites of people I find incredibly inspiring this afternoon and they have taught me this: that I have company. That I am allowed to be a HUMAN. That it is heroic to believe in yourself--to say in one of those great movie-theatre resounding voices that you are GOOD, that your dreams are VALID, and that you have POWER. It is time for action, but action out of a spirit that says something good is on it's way, somewhere waiting for me to tap into it. Something is out there, and I can find it.
Good luck to all of you.
I'm reading this book (which you should definitely pick up whether you are artistic or not at all) called The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. This book is recovering me from a lot of destructive, negative thinking and is taking me into the mindset that I am allowed to create, and that my creativity (my art, my life, my personality) brings about good. This book is empowering me to find the roots of some of my more depressing feelings and beliefs and put those un-worked-through experiences to bed so I can wake up and move on.
These new notions are also causing me to really appreciate spirituality even more. I like the idea of the "New Country," Henri Nouwen writes about in his masterpiece, The Inner Voice of Love. He describes the place we need to get to in our lives: a place of peace, of acceptance and love for ourselves and others, a deep appreciation of the good all around us, and a striving to bring light to spaces that are suffering terribly from deep darkness. Most of all, I suppose the "New Country" is really a place of trust. It becomes a reality for those who learn to trust that there is good somewhere inside of them, that perhaps there is a good God who is active and trustworthy.
I think the most difficult thing for me to do is trust. I just can't. I have friends who have massaged my shoulders before and could tell you about the massive knots that make themselves in my muscles, in my soft, tensing fabric. I am not always active in my life--pursuing things that would boost my financial situation or bring me peace of mind. Instead, I am always worrying. I don't believe in anything. I apply for positions half-heartedly because I don't believe any good will come of it anyway. I am terrified. And I am exhausted from what being terrified most of the time (even subconsciously--hence the bazillions of knots in my back I am typically unaware of until someone touches my shoulders) does to me. And I need time alone. But I feel guilty wanting that because I still don't have a full-time job, and I still haven't paid back all my debts, and I am not the best friend in the world and feel like I should be laying down my life for the people who are always there for me. But this is the trap. This is the scary place you get to where all of your muscles can't even knot up anymore because they've gotten so tense their material is unable to bind up, but exists more like concrete plates mashing up and down and side to side. I need to rest. I need to believe in Something. I need to believe in Something that I can trust--and deep down--deep deep--I know that this is possible. I need to believe in myself--that I am equipped with incredible power. I need to trust myself.
So, I write this not only for myself--because I haven't vented in a while. I also write this because I know a lot of people are feeling the same way. We are exhausted. In this economy it really feels like there is no hope. In this world...in this screwed up self...it often feels like there's no hope. I've been visiting sites of people I find incredibly inspiring this afternoon and they have taught me this: that I have company. That I am allowed to be a HUMAN. That it is heroic to believe in yourself--to say in one of those great movie-theatre resounding voices that you are GOOD, that your dreams are VALID, and that you have POWER. It is time for action, but action out of a spirit that says something good is on it's way, somewhere waiting for me to tap into it. Something is out there, and I can find it.
Good luck to all of you.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
In Transition
I am in the process of moving into my mom's house. I'm not at all ashamed of moving in with her, as I don't feel entirely irresponsible and will be paying her some rent (about half of what I've paid for the past few years, but some). I also feel like her house, the house she bought after the divorce, is kind of a safe haven. I feel like it's got some kind of slow-dripping peace about it. A cool, soft evening peace about it.
I've been gradually moving things: one stack of books here, a load of clean laundry there. While I'm moving these things I have this distinct feeling that her house will help make me new. That, when I finally get my desk in there, in front of the lovely front window in the room she's giving me, I'll keep it uncluttered, spotless, excepting the occasional post-it which will list all sorts of things I will actually do. I really, deeply believe this. And at the same time, I have this awful gnawing that maybe I won't be perfect when I walk through these doors for the last time. I know that when I realize I have left my room a mess at my mom's during the first couple of months I'm there, I'm going to feel so disappointed in myself. Like, I'm totally incapable of ever cleaning up--of ever really being an adult.
And my mom is the best. I know my room won't be awful, and I know I clean up after myself in general areas of the house, but I think a lot of this is stemming from this terrible feeling that I'm not getting anywhere--that I won't get anywhere.
I know I'll likely have a decent career someday. And hopefully I'll get into graduate school. I'm already starting to prepare for that. I'm working on my writing again--scribbling everything that comes into my head, and I plan on sending some new poems out to literary magazines this summer. But, I feel like there are other areas in my life--other deep deep desires I have, that I'll never see actualized.
For instance, every time I come in contact with an individual who has a great marriage, I wonder when they met. I want to know, "Is there still time for me?" I really don't want to be married this instant, but, I want to know that I'm capable of that--that that's a possibility for me. That I may eventually find a real sweetheart to share this journey with.
And then, within this past year--more and more--I've felt that gut-wrenching maternal instinct. I finally love children. I want to hold them. I may not be overt about this. But I feel this very deep, welling tide inside me to have a child someday. Though I have plenty of time for that, and really do not feel as if I'll be prepared or will actually want to be in that sort of situation for ten years or so, I want to know that perhaps one day, I could be. I want to know that these dreams are not elaborate, fanciful things, but really are possible. And not only possible, but legitimate.
I want to know that I can want these things. I can hope for them.
I was reading Shauna Niequist's Cold Tangerines (a deliciously refreshing read--I'm worried I'll finish it so soon and I'll miss it terribly once it's over and not new anymore), and found this:
"I wear my ugly pants , the saggy yellow terry-cloth ones with the permanently dirty hems, and I walk around my house, looking at all the things that I should fix someday, but I don't fix them just yet, and I imagine God noticing all the things about me that should get fixed up one day, and lloving me anyway and being okay with the mess for the time being."
I loved reading that. It makes me want to spend more time with myself--just myself--appreciating my own art, and my own unique existence, and perhaps being really brave and talking to God about some of these big worries on my heart. I want to trust that maybe he does hear, and I am not sitting alone in a giant void that so happens to be hosting a very beautiful sunset at present.
I have so much to learn. I have so many rooms in my heart that need deep cleaning and turning over to Something that will love them better than I have been able to on my own. I think this will be a good year. A very hard year. I have a feeling it may feel like a very dark tunnel of a year. But I'm going to put all of my effort into it, praying that because of the darkness, I'll come up again fresher, and more at peace with what I've got.
I've been gradually moving things: one stack of books here, a load of clean laundry there. While I'm moving these things I have this distinct feeling that her house will help make me new. That, when I finally get my desk in there, in front of the lovely front window in the room she's giving me, I'll keep it uncluttered, spotless, excepting the occasional post-it which will list all sorts of things I will actually do. I really, deeply believe this. And at the same time, I have this awful gnawing that maybe I won't be perfect when I walk through these doors for the last time. I know that when I realize I have left my room a mess at my mom's during the first couple of months I'm there, I'm going to feel so disappointed in myself. Like, I'm totally incapable of ever cleaning up--of ever really being an adult.
And my mom is the best. I know my room won't be awful, and I know I clean up after myself in general areas of the house, but I think a lot of this is stemming from this terrible feeling that I'm not getting anywhere--that I won't get anywhere.
I know I'll likely have a decent career someday. And hopefully I'll get into graduate school. I'm already starting to prepare for that. I'm working on my writing again--scribbling everything that comes into my head, and I plan on sending some new poems out to literary magazines this summer. But, I feel like there are other areas in my life--other deep deep desires I have, that I'll never see actualized.
For instance, every time I come in contact with an individual who has a great marriage, I wonder when they met. I want to know, "Is there still time for me?" I really don't want to be married this instant, but, I want to know that I'm capable of that--that that's a possibility for me. That I may eventually find a real sweetheart to share this journey with.
And then, within this past year--more and more--I've felt that gut-wrenching maternal instinct. I finally love children. I want to hold them. I may not be overt about this. But I feel this very deep, welling tide inside me to have a child someday. Though I have plenty of time for that, and really do not feel as if I'll be prepared or will actually want to be in that sort of situation for ten years or so, I want to know that perhaps one day, I could be. I want to know that these dreams are not elaborate, fanciful things, but really are possible. And not only possible, but legitimate.
I want to know that I can want these things. I can hope for them.
I was reading Shauna Niequist's Cold Tangerines (a deliciously refreshing read--I'm worried I'll finish it so soon and I'll miss it terribly once it's over and not new anymore), and found this:
"I wear my ugly pants , the saggy yellow terry-cloth ones with the permanently dirty hems, and I walk around my house, looking at all the things that I should fix someday, but I don't fix them just yet, and I imagine God noticing all the things about me that should get fixed up one day, and lloving me anyway and being okay with the mess for the time being."
I loved reading that. It makes me want to spend more time with myself--just myself--appreciating my own art, and my own unique existence, and perhaps being really brave and talking to God about some of these big worries on my heart. I want to trust that maybe he does hear, and I am not sitting alone in a giant void that so happens to be hosting a very beautiful sunset at present.
I have so much to learn. I have so many rooms in my heart that need deep cleaning and turning over to Something that will love them better than I have been able to on my own. I think this will be a good year. A very hard year. I have a feeling it may feel like a very dark tunnel of a year. But I'm going to put all of my effort into it, praying that because of the darkness, I'll come up again fresher, and more at peace with what I've got.
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