In The Vagina Monologues, there is a piece in which a woman comes to the realization while in a “Vagina Workshop” that she had avoided finding her clitoris. That she had believed that orgasms happen to her, that they weren’t something she should… have a hand in. She was occasionally the recipient of magical, accidental orgasms (on horseback, or in water, she says), but had never actually made one happen herself.
When she was instructed in the workshop that it was time to find her clitoris, she noticed she began to panic. She had to now give up the idea that someone would come along and give her orgasms, she had to now give up the idea that someone was coming to live her life for her.
Her lines occurred to me as I walked toward yesterday’s professional development seminar for writers. The sense that I was having to give up the idea that someone would come along and live my life for me – that someone else would make the decisions, take the actions that would enable me to be a something. A writer, an artist, a worker.
I have magical, accidental thinking too. And as I noticed I was experiencing a strange sense of sadness on my way to the seminar yesterday, I realized this was why. It is becoming time for me to “find my clitoris.” To stop waiting for someone to do this for me, to stop waiting for someone to hand me the roadmap for my life, and time for me to begin actually taking action if I want results.
This brought grief. The death of my magical thinking. The death of my hope that I could float along on half steam. Because I have floated along on half steam, the recipient of magical gifts from the Universe. The problem with floating along without my own power is that I now come to approach the job market, the work world, with no sense of self-esteem. What have I done? Where have I been a real asset?
Sure, I have a long resume, with a host of attributes, but none of them have anything to do with what gives me fire. When a friend suggested recently that once May comes along, I’ll find my “fuck yeah” job at 40 hours a week with benefits… I thought I would vomit. Or rather, my whole internal organ system went momentarily into a freeze. FUCK NO. 40 hours a week with benefits sounds like a prison sentence. But it’s always what I’ve fallen back on. I’m a good little worker bee; under half-steam I can coast along on charisma and menial labor.
That is not my “fuck yeah” job. So what is? Because I have ultimately avoided finding my “spot,” I have no idea.
But, I have now realized that I’ve been wishing that someone would make those decisions and take those actions for me. That I would magically and accidentally end up in the career, field, job that I love.
And I’ve realized that this is not true. And further, back to the self-esteem thing, it doesn’t build it. Being gifted by the Universe has been wonderful; I’ve been able to walk through the fire of dramatic uprisings in finances and personal relationships. I have done this with as much work as I thought was necessary, but not much more.
I am frightened. I have never really done much of the showing up wholly and fully, and so I don’t yet have the experience that I can. But, I know for absolute certain that if I don’t let go of my magical thinking, I will “end up” in another cubicle, and I have promised myself, sworn to myself, and begged myself to not do that.
This means accepting that I am worth the effort; and that I am worthy of the effort. That I am worthy of my full attention, and don’t need to be dependent on or subject to the random twists of fate.
It’s time to take matters into my own hand.