I haven’t written in some days. I’m feeling like I have nothing to say, being wrapped up in and worried about dramatic changes everywhere, obsessed with my poverty and right now I feel cranky and have a splitting headache that makes me want to stick my head in a bucket of ice water.
But my friend P goes and starts a blog about feeless free writing:
And the invitation insists I sit here in my cranky achiness and write anyway. Well I’ll show you and just sit here with nothing nice to say. Nothing good, nothing interesting. Nothing. Nya nya nya nya. And fine. I’ll just show the whole wide world what kind of a child I have to put up with all the time. (crickets)
The trouble is, writing today isn’t going to make me any money. It won’t solve my problems or get rid of my headache. It won’t get the work done that needs doing, or call my friends back. It won’t resolve the argument I just had with Y or gracefully pull the tense silence between us back into the yummy folds of connection. It won’t make bad things not happen or even help me feel better about them when they do.
So I’m trying hard to remember. I’m squeezing my eyes shut and crossing my fingers and reaching far into childhood memories for some helpful mantra “I think I can, I think I can” that will fix it all and bring me back. Back to center where I don’t hate whatever I have to say so loudly. Where all of me can just sit here writing and feel like that is a perfectly appropriate and even inspired thing to do when all those other things that need doing are just sitting there looking at me. Back to someone who has something worth saying.
And Y asks me if he can read me something – two sentences into the properties of iodine and the symptoms of iodine deficiency I start crying. And I suspect something else is going on. Maybe.
I’ve been so good lately. Really allowing myself to be angry, which is second only to sharks, or maybe the anesthesia not working, on the list of my top ten fears. I’ve been crossing the boundaries of my habitual life paradigm. I’m not even sure what that means, but I’m sure I’m doing it. Big stuff. Left and right. Whammo with a life-changing decision… practicing following my own voice. Kersplat with a gaping hole in my plans… practicing trust and hoping anyway. The whole wide world is falling down and I’m practicing breathing.
And tonight my seams are tearing a bit. The bulging belly of all that is being evoked – trying desperately to keep it from meaning I’m outgrowing my favorite jeans. I don’t have anything else to wear! I don’t WANT anything else! Well shit.
It’s going to be ok. That’s the best I can muster for myself tonight through the fog of drippy tears. You don’t have to know what to do, or even what’s wrong. It’s going to be fine.
I’m reluctantly (very reluctantly) accepting this. And for the record, $50,000 would help too.