I need to know where I'm going (or do I?)

For my entire adult life, I've told myself that I don't know where I'm going. More accurately, I didn't know how to go. I knew I was unhappy with the career path that had accidentally unfolded before me, but I wasn't willing to upset the stability that it offered. I would stay put. It was the safe thing to do.

But at some point the pain that staying put causes starts to overpower the benefits of safety. Over the past five years, I've done a shit ton of reflecting. About why I made the choices I did. About what brings me joy. About what I can and cannot tolerate in my relationships and work environments. About how I can grow and become a Better Version of Me. And still, with all the tiny epiphanies that have built up, I could not seem unstick myself.

One of the things keeping me glued to my desk was loyalty. I have a job. It's a good job. I work with supportive, inspiring people. They keep me grounded when the bureaucracy starts to eat my soul. They needed me, I told myself.

A few weeks ago, one of the people I was most loyal to announced that she was taking a new job on the Left Coast. My initial reaction was not joy for her and the amazing opportunity on her horizon. My initial reaction was: WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? I know and have known for years that this is just a job. And no matter how much I adore the people I work with, it will never be my life's work. So what is my life's work?

I'm still figuring that out. But here's what I do know about what I want it to include:

• Joyful, authentic connections
• Creative solutions (making stuff, writing stuff)
• Exists outside the "system" (F bureaucracy)
• Supporting people/causes I believe in
• Feels effortless, but challenging; secure, yet fluid
• Flexible schedule
• Opportunities for guiding, coaching, nurturing
• Brings financial (and spiritual) abundance

The long and the short of it is that I have to create my life's work. I had been waiting for an A-HA moment where THE THING appeared like a glowing orb descending from the heavens to show me the way. But what if there is no WAY? What if I can take the skills I've picked up on my accidental (but meant-to-be) path and create work that fits my criteria? I know so many women who do this. And I know how hard it will be. But every one of them tells me that it's worth it. 

Maybe the answer is that I don't need to know where I'm going. I just need to find ways to connect my brain AND my heart to my work. That could look like ANYTHING. I just have to unstick myself from my desk and start wandering. 

Anger is not a worthwhile emotion

I grew up around some angry people. This is not unusual when there are alcoholics in the family. They yell. They throw stuff. They wake up the next morning and pretend like everything's fine. It's never really productive because it doesn't get to the root of the issue. But it happens on the regs. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Because of this, I decided at an early age that anger wasn't for me. I would choose reason. Always. I definitely prefer a rational conversation where people actually have their voices heard. But when you never release anger, it builds up. Last year, while I was in the midst of working through a bunch of sadness, I started to realize that there might be some anger mixed in there. 

I started paying attention to my body. I noticed a physical vibration in my lower left rib cage that I identified as my pent-up anger. And one night in January, I decided to hang out with it. 

I lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply with a cat perched on my shoulder. After a little while the hum intensified and suddenly I felt a sharp pain shoot up past my heart to my chest. I literally felt a pop. I looked down and there was physical evidence of whatever had just happened inside my body: a large red welt. I think that was the moment I made friends with all that pent-up anger. And the moment I truly believed in energy work. 

I've spent a lot of time with anger, particularly post-inauguration. It was nice to have a place to focus it. The anger I have towards alcoholic family members and deadbeat dads is balanced with love. They are family. They do the best they can. I can't fault them for that. I can fault willing injustice perpetrated by those who use their privilege to hurt others. 

And that is how I became an activist. My anger could no longer be contained and I'd found an appropriate enemy. I'm mostly productive in getting it out -- because now I understand that that's possible. I go to organizing meetings. I march. I donate. I read. I have discussions with real-live people about difficult social issues. I send post cards and emails to elected officials (I know calling is better but I hate it!). And, just once, I might have angrily tweeted at the orange monster because I just couldn't help myself (He's such an ASSHOLE). 

The unintended consequence of making friends with anger is that I spent what is normally the SAD season on an adrenaline rush. I wasn't necessarily happier than previous winters, but I was activated.I also made some new HUMAN friends who have been activated. Which means that in addition to the anger, we share laughter and inside jokes and compassion and solidarity. 

Those things give me hope that the world isn't going to end just because there's an orange monster in the White House. He's essentially an angry alcoholic who can't spell with a twitter account (Sad!). And even though I'm cool with anger now, it is still true that that kind of anger is not productive. 

A Messy New Year to You

On the last day of 2016, I was filled with gratitude and hope. I had welcomed an adorable, tiny niece into the world two days before, and felt a warm glow when I thought about all the adorable, grown people I already have in my life. I was going to sail into 2017 on goodwill and joy. 

But, apparently, my subconscious desire to obliterate the memory of 2016 was too strong. Several glasses of wine later, I was in a pile on the floor with two of my lovely lady friends as they consoled my weepy ass. 

This is not how it was supposed to go down!

I was supposed to get a fresh start. 

I was supposed to get a New Year's kiss (which maybe I did? I don't actually remember...). 

Whenever I fall apart, I reflect. What is the lesson here? How can I take this embarrassing, painful experience and learn from it? How can I move forward with grace?

I am constantly in awe of people who are able to be vulnerable and show their humanity. And, even though it was alcohol-induced, I suppose that my behavior on New Year's Eve was just that. I put myself on the line and told someone how I felt. While, in my imagination, he was supposed to tell me he was madly in love with me, it didn't go down that way. And that sucked. 

It also triggered the feels that I've been pickled in these past six months. It was like the last wedge of wood the beaver patted in with his muddy little tail was just a teensy bit loose. The smallest change in equilibrium caused the dam to collapse. 

So what did I learn? Well, I learned that I have friends who love and respect me for my vulnerability. I learned that, even when someone doesn't reciprocate your feelings, they may appreciate that you speak your mind. I learned that I was still holding on to more hurt than I realized. I learned that the only way out is through. And that, about twice a year, I will drink wine like water and unleash a bunch of buried feelings. 

Life is messy. And that's what makes it beautiful. I still feel angry and foolish and embarrassed. But I also know that I'm a human being who sometimes fucks up. And that maybe those fuck ups are where the best learning happens.

Thank you, 2016: On creating space, letting go, and loving hard

The past six months have been some of the most challenging of my life. But unlike previous life-falling-apart moments where I bucked up and plodded forward, not actually dealing with the deep-down hurts and fears, this year I have allowed myself to intensely feel every kernel of despair and every pang of loss. Sounds terrible, right? It absolutely wasn't.

Every terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad thing that has happened to me this year has come with a gigantic lesson. Lessons that have been offered up before in my life, but that I didn't fully internalize, let alone allow to transform my thinking or behavior. THIS break up allowed me to realize that I deserve to be cherished for who I am and stop feeling like I am not enough. THIS family illness allowed me to realize that fear and love can coexist. THIS loss (my baby Nico) allowed me to truly appreciate how much comfort she gave me and to let go gracefully when she was ready. And, now, facing another feline illness, I am learning to leave space for uncertainty. Similar to the lesson with my Meme, someone can be very sick and not immediately be ripped from your world.

A couple of weeks ago, I made a list of goals for 2017. I want to enter it with hope and motivation to bring out my best self and appreciate the miracles around me. One of those goals was: LOVE HARD. Another was: SURRENDER. I'm not yet sure how I do both. Loving hard means getting attached. I am well versed in attachment; I struggle with the letting go. I know that balancing these two things is a practice. Each time I am faced with the opportunity to love or the need to let go, I will have to allow the circumstances and my heart to find that balance. Which leads to another of my goals: TRUST.

I've never been great at this one; I have good reason not to be. But allowing past hurts to make me fearful that everyone I love will leave or  that I will never find joy is not exactly helpful. I've done that for 41 years and it's just ushered in more disappointment and missed opportunities. So, at the end of the year that tried to kill me, I am going to take a different approach. I am going to thank it.

Thank you, 2016, for pushing me to my limit. For helping me to face my biggest fears. For teaching me how to feel again. For reminding me that no matter how bad the loss hurts, love is always worth it. Always.

Now get the F out of the way so I can party with 2017.

2016 is Trying to Kill Me

Just before the start of this year, I learned that my meme had advanced Alzheimer's. I spent the night before New Year's Eve in my bed with my snuggliest cat and felt the shit out of my feelings. 

The new year brought love. I told myself that was the universe's way of protecting, supporting me, showing me that it was all worth it. But by July the love had gone and I learned I needed to have stuff that was making me sick removed from my body. 

As I moved into September, I felt like I was healing. I started making peace with the failed relationship and forgiving the boy who broke my heart (though he'd disappeared into thin air so he'd never know). I started making inroads into a new potential career that I felt passionate about. The tides were turning. 

Until my 19-year-old cat started exhibiting subtle signs of illness. Loud purring which soon turned into labored breathing, eventually leading to a diagnosis of a lung mass. 

I've spent this evening sobbing and worrying and wondering how much time we have left. Ironically, the last person who left me didn't give me this luxury. But my baby Nico and I will have at least 24 hours, if not more, to make peace and say goodbye. As terrible as it is, I feel grateful. Because love. 

Process is Progress

Creativity is a process. There are thousands of books (many of which I own) that will tell you that. And while I’ve read these books...and my brain seems to understand the concept...when it comes to my own creative process, I don’t get it. I turn into the judgiest judge, hurling insults and curbing my creative flow.

Why is it taking me so long?

Or

Everyone else’s is more (interesting, polished, coherent) than mine…

Or

I wish I had natural talent….

The judgiest judge comes out most when it comes to writing. It’s something I’ve studied so a lot of rules for how to BE A GOOD WRITER live in my head. The rules feel like a lead blanket; they weigh me down and make me forget that writing is a creative venture and can be fun.

All this judgment got me thinking about my own creative process. I recently listened to an episode of Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast Revisionist History where he talked about the two different kinds of creators: those who put a piece into the world fully formed with what seems like minimal effort and those who labor over their art, refining and perfecting and not allowing others to gaze upon it until it is completely complete.

Strangely, but not surprisingly knowing myself, I straddle this line. I’m more of a spurt-of-inspiration-and-fully-formed kind of girl. But the time leading up to that involves days, weeks, sometimes years of turning ideas and words and images over and over in my mind until they reach full gestation. The problem with this is that, until recently, instead of realizing and accepting that this WAS my creative process, I viewed myself as lazy. A procrastinator. Unambitious. The judgment was so overwhelming that it made me incapable of creating anything at all. But the truth is that I was not honoring my process.

This week I hand built a skull out of clay. If I ever made anything with clay before it was in an elementary school art class. Now, at 41, I chose to sit in a studio with a bunch of artsy ladies and play with clay. And be really bad at it. Or at least feel really bad at it. The truth is, I am pretty uncomfortable doing most things I haven’t yet put my 10,000 hours into, and this was no exception.

The first step in working with clay is wedging. This is a process where you knead and throw the clay on the table in an effort to pull out the moisture and prepare it for sculpting. As I sat in the studio forming a primitive skull (think Jack Skellington), I found myself glancing across the table to compare my novice clay to that of my artsy compatriots. In doing that, I started to feel the lead blanket covering me. Why was I making this so hard?

I tried to think about times when I was able to go with the creative flow. When I didn’t think myself into a state of inaction. When I was able to play. I can sit down with a pile of magazines and craft paper and let them tell me how they want to be arranged. I can stand in front of the rainbow of beads at Michael’s and let them tell me which ones should come home with me. I do these things often and with ease. Remembering that allowed me to let go, at least a little, and play the crap out of that clay.

The metaphor of wedging is not lost on me. I can choose to look at the length of time it takes me to get through a creative project as laziness or procrastination (and there have been times when that has been the case, but those were usually shitty projects). Or I could think of it as pulling out the moisture so that my ideas are malleable and easily sculpted.Or percolating. No one wants a hastily brewed cup of coffee. Why should I give my creative process any less time than it deserves?

So here’s what I know about my process. When it’s a visual art (aka putting pretty images together), my thinking brain is mostly comfortable taking a back seat and letting spontaneous creation take place. When it’s an art form that I am either too comfortable with (e.g.writing. Because: RULES) or not comfortable at all with (e.g. sculpting. Because: I DON'T KNOW THE RULES), I need to wedge. There are many steps to my process and between each one is conscious or subconscious thinking, processing, synthesizing. While in the past I might have thought this was because I wasn’t good enough, now I know it’s because I'm gestating. And that might be the most important part of my process.

I'm fine

It turns out that if I don't have legitimate, have-to-be-out-of-the-house-at-a-certain-time plans, that I will not really move all day. Well, I move. From my bed to the couch, maybe to the porch, and eventually back to my bed. I might eat something. Listen to a podcast, watch Netflix...read a book. But this extreme level of rest is what it takes for this introverted-extrovert to recover from interaction with the world.

On legitimate plan days, I paddle like crazy, trying to stay afloat. And on the surface, I am fine. I get up when I need to. I shower. I go to work. Sometimes I even wash the dishes. Most days I find humor in the absurdity of life. But in the depths of my soul, I'm cracked and calloused. Raw and steeled off. Vulnerable and hard as nails. All at once. 

It doesn't feel good. 

And I need a ridiculous amount of sleep and staring to make it through. 

Maybe this is normal for a 41-year-old woman who is drained by her job, recently got dumped and then had surgery to remove rogue endometrial tissue from her abdomen. I thought the two weeks I was forced to lie around and not lift anything over 10 lbs would be enough to heal me. It wasn't. 

I've sobbed at my therapist. I've sobbed at a random male friend and tried to make him hug me. I've sobbed at my 19-year-old cat in my bed on those days when I can't really move. I am only just starting to feel like I've hit a tipping point. That enough of the pain has been released that I can possibly feel whole again. Someday. 

This is not to say that I don't feel joy. I do. I spend time with my nephew and my heart swells. I watch terrible tv and drink wine with Meredith and I know who my people are. Even at work, when I'm being drained by the minutia, I feel comfort in the bonds. 

And maybe this is fine right now. This is what it looks like. I don't feel like I'm faking it. I'm engaging with the world when I can. And when I can't I do what I have to to replenish reserves. And if that looks like moving from bed to couch to porch, then so be it.