Light in the Dark.

According to my pock-marked memory, my dad held at least 5 jobs, sequentially, during the time I was growing up. Every few years, he seemed to move on to a new job, eventually landing someplace he retired from.

My mom variously was engaged in the following classes or hobbies:

bread-making

cake decorating

special effects make-up

Mary Kay-style beauty product sales

crocheting

knitting

part-time make-up artist

The closet became filled with half-finished projects and tools of a trade long abandoned. 

My dad also told me a few years ago that he rarely finished projects he began around the house (the wallpaper all done, except for that spot there; the fireplace paint stripped, but not re-stained) because of his own childhood lesson that if you finished something it could be criticized.

And I wonder what of this I’ve “inherited” through observation.

I've realized the Fulcrum idea only works if I’m earning more per hour and working fewer hours. It doesn’t, and won’t work, if I’m only working fewer hours!

I feel a little afraid today. Afraid that the time I’m intending to “buy” for myself will be eaten up by odd jobs in order to cull a living.

I guess I mention my parents’ work habits because I’m afraid that I’m like them. And can certainly see the seeds and small shoots of their behavior in my own.

Molly doing theater. Molly doing all organic cooking. Molly in a band. Molly wanting to take math classes, tutor kids, fly a plane. Molly quitting another job. Again.

And.

I’m not sorry I’m doing this.

It’s funny. Last year, playing bass in a band, I said I was finally living out a teenage dream I’d never let myself have. If I were more honest with myself then, I would have studied theater in college or engaged in it then. I would have tried the magpie lifestyle then. I would have held odd jobs, instead of the immediate office jobs.

I would have been a mildly responsible but creatively engaged young adult.

But, I wasn’t. That wasn’t my experience, and that wasn’t allowed. Coloring outside the lines was not allowed in my house. Or so I understood it.

I thought last night about this past year+ since returning to work post-cancer. About how I’ve been doing the things that a teen and 20something would do. It logically does follow that my professional work pattern would change, if I’m sort of going back to live the kinds of experiences I’d aged myself out of then.

And perhaps I’ll do them differently than I would have at 20 or 25. Perhaps trying to live outside of the lines at 33 is easier, or more grounded. I don’t know. But I do see that I seem to be veering toward a life that a lot of young people live, as if I’m reclaiming a lost youth, a lost innocence and curiosity and naïveté.

Is it “fun” to about to launch into the unknown? Well, yes and no. It’s fun to feel engaged in the creative world and think outside the box. It’s less fun to know the realities of salary requirements and health coverage and car payments and also try to think outside the box.

I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen. I know I have more work to do, more actual sitting down and developing a plan to do. And I think I’m going to have to reach out for help from folks to help me hold the space to do that.

It’s funny. (I keep on saying that! But, this all amuses the observer part of me, I’ll tell you!) Over a year ago, I sat with two women who helped me form a game-plan for alternative classes I could facilitate.

About 6 months ago, I sat with a different pair of folks, who helped me develop a different plan for an alternative after-school program.

I’ve been dipping my toe into these waters, and have subsequently thrown my arms up into their faces and said, But I don’t know, I don’t know enough and it’s too hard and I don’t have the tools.

I’ve abandoned this line of thinking as many times as I’ve lit the fires in the eyes of my friends, who’ve said, Molly, this is totally possible.

So, I guess it’s time for me to dig my notes out of the closet like my mom's half-finished quilts. Time to breathe deeply and let myself live the life I’ve consistently told others I want to live.

It’s also time for me to call those friends back in and have them hold my hand as I sort through those notes and make moves in this direction. Because, as I’ve said before, Sometimes I need someone else to hold the lantern of hope. 

In Training

Dear Blogosphere,

Apologies for the sporadic posts these few weeks. First there was sickness, then my mom in town, and then, of course, the Monday 5 a.m. shift at my gym.

And in thinking about the structure of the next few weeks, I don’t know that I can promise you anything more than a few pixels.

This Sunday began the first full week of rehearsals. 4 hours Sunday, 3 each night this week. And assumedly, each weeknight until opening night on September 19. It really is like a part-time job!

And so, I’ve come to think of my approach to this time as though I’m training for a marathon. To the best of my ability, I am going to aim to be completely conscious of the food I eat, the breaks I force myself to take from my desk at work, the sleep I manage to slip in between rehearsals and a day job.

I have this phrase I wrote down a hundred years ago that is taped to my closet wall and has taken me as long to come to understand and believe: Treating myself like a precious object will make me strong.

And I believe this is the perfect time to begin to implement “acting as if” that’s true (because, I somewhere believe it is). The body is a cautious and delicate scale. In these few weeks and months, I’ve gotten to see that my own scale is particularly sensitive (liver trouble, K.O.’d by a virus, my acupuncturist saying my body was ripe with signs of stress).

So, balance, intentionality. Vigilance. Yes, it’s the absolute busiest season of my work year – like a retailer between Black Friday and Christmas. But, as we’ve seen, I can’t show up to work if I’m not healthy, and I’m not healthy if I’m not intentional. So, I have to be my own trainer, stopping the clock to take a walk outside. Deciding, No, I won’t have 4 cups of coffee to power through my day. Yes, guy at the store who watched me put the apple back and reach for the organic one that’s a dollar more expensive, yes, I do need to eat this instead.

I’ve set up a “crash-pad” at my friend’s house who lives between work and the rehearsal theater so that I can go and chill out a few hours after work without having to either rush home and back or sit at a café and spend money or be interactive with anyone.

I’m going to begin going back to my gym a few mornings a week, instead of the once I’ve been doing. I’ve been meditating almost every morning for 10 – 20 minutes. And, we’ll see where the blog falls on the self-care scale, considering the few moments of sleep it ticks away.

Finally, I’d like to make sure that I get time in with my “brain drain” crew, spending an hour with people who normalize my experience and help my thinking to turn down in decibels.

"Meetings, Movement, and Meditation" has arisen as my prescription for health, and I am hoping to treat myself as the worthy patient and doctor of such self-care, which will enable me to show up fully, mind, body, spirit.

Because… I gotta tell ya, This shit is So.Much.Fun. !

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...

Why aren’t you writing for a living?

Because it’s just a hobby, an escape.

Why aren’t you writing for a living?

Because it’s too hard and I’m not good enough.

Why aren’t you writing for a living?

Because I don’t know how to show up consistently.

Any of these types of questions ever cross your mind? Any of these questions and immediate quashings?

This morning, that question came to me. I always dismiss my writing becoming a means or an ends. I don’t make the time; I haven’t touched the essay my aunt said I should submit to the New York Times’ Modern Love section. I haven’t crafted anything for the The Sun, a magazine at least 3 people have suggested I submit my work to.

It’s just me being me. How is that worthy or interesting or enough?

Because I saw someone else had clicked on it, I just re-read a blog I wrote in January, Remember What the Redwoods Told You, about being “told” by the trees that I was going to live through my cancer. And as I read through the end of it, about being given the chance to be in my life, to make this time worthy, I think about all the procrastination and fear I still let grab hold of my ankles.

This is not a self-flagellation blog; as you can read in italics above, I already have plenty of those thoughts. But, they are just thoughts, not facts. And thoughts can be changed. Through action.

“Act your way into right thinking,” the phrase goes.

I’ve “thought” for a while about waking up earlier (yes, even earlier) to do some “real” writing. It hasn’t happened yet, and that’s okay, but I know that I work better in the morning, when my brain cells still have some anima.

And as I was finding this question arise in my meditation this morning, goading me to find a legitimate reason for postponing my good, I thought of a perfect resource friend I can reach out to about this, and actually get something into action. And maybe deadline.

Because, as my acting friend told me earlier this week when I asked her how she “makes” herself learn monologues, she answered, Deadlines. She sets up deadlines by signing up for auditions, and makes sure she has a back pocket filled with current monologues.

To paraphrase, Our growth can come as much from our actively seeking it, as it can from being forced.

But, it helps to be pushed a little.

That’s what registering for these auditions is for me, a push to get back into it, to not let another month and another month slide off the calendar. To make this year “worthwhile,” to me means to actually do those things that I think are for other people, people with talent or time or resources. Bull.

The only difference between them and me is action. Nothing more.

A rallying, warrior cry sounds every day for me. It is my choice to heed its call or to roll over and hit Snooze.

And yet, it is also my choice to condemn myself or not on the days I do hit Snooze. As I wrote yesterday, there’s no use in beating myself up for not being where I want to be – that doesn’t actually get me there quicker.

What helps with all of this is accountability, which a deadline is, but also what friends can be. I’ve been toying with the idea (thinking, again!) recently of getting an “Action Buddy,” or “Accountability Partner” whatever you want to call it.

I know this is a system that works for many people, and I believe it could work for me. So, with all irony, I’m going to add “Get an Accountability Buddy” to my list of personal actions… and see if I can hold myself accountable to that!

Because there is no reason I’m not writing that is valid. I know there’s grist here; I know there’s “enough” talent. I would love to take actions that reflect that knowledge. Because, if you haven’t noticed, I seem to think that Time is our most precious natural resource of all.

Breathing Room.

Sort of makes me wonder if there’s a room somewhere where all people do is breathe? Maybe that’s called a meditation center. Or a hospital.

In any case… yesterday, the interior design company I’ve been temping with these last few weeks (and on and off during the last year) asked me if I’d like to come on with them for a temp gig for a full, firm 6 weeks (possibly 2 months, but 6 weeks firm)?

Of course, I said yes. !

This gives me 6 weeks to really have the mental space to look for permanent work, while not freaking out about bills being paid or not. I know, now, that I not only will have July rent paid (HUZZAH!), but I will have August rent paid. I haven’t known if I’d have two months’ rent in a row in a long time. I can’t tell you what a relief this is.

I noticed how much more I was breathing after I was asked and after I accepted. I have a tendency to hold my breath, or breathe shallowly, when I’m stressed out. Most people do, I think. I realize it’s not only then though. Sometimes the muscles of my stomach are in contraction even when I’m sitting by myself at this computer writing this – or at my breakfast nook, writing my morning pages. Why on earth would I hold my breath, or be all tied up when there’s nothing to stress about? I dunno.

But, I recall what was said at a meditation I went to a few weeks ago, where the facilitator suggested we allow ourselves to have “abs of jello.” People snickered, because really, we all probably are holding (well, not maybe ALL) some sort of tension around with us.

The way that I walked into work yesterday, and the way I walked out of it were two vastly different ways of being. I was angry – as you might have learned from yesterday’s blog – and all bolted up in worry and fear. I did also leave the building at noon to head downtown to meet up with a group of folks for an hour, which was unbelievably helpful – and I began to notice, then, the whole tightness of my belly thing – the not properly breathing thing. I hadn’t been asked to stay on yet, but I began to notice that I didn’t have to hold my body in freak-out mode.

When I was asked to stay on, if you could visualize that metal bib they put on you at the dentist as a cape, and watch it fall to the floor with a thud, then you’d know how I felt. I felt acres lighter. It’s huge. It’s a big thing.

And… it means even more that I have to show up for this position for what I’m being paid to do. It means getting to work on time, basically, and not hanging out online that much. That’s cool. I mean, I set my alarm for 6am yesterday in an attempt to get to work earlier (aka “on time”), but didn’t make that. I snoozed til 6:30. So, this morning, I tried again. And up at 6am as I was this morning, I might have to wake up earlier still to ensure that I have the…breathing room… to do everything that I do in the morning with more ease and less stress – a constant look at the clock – even in my meditation feeling crushed by my awareness that it’s ten minutes I “don’t have.”

Although I cringe at the thought of anything earlier than 6am, it’s really not that big a deal. I’ll gripe about it some – but the benefits will be way worth it. I won’t hold my gut in as I write this in the morning, or as I’m cooking my ubiquitous eggs.

It’s hard to not imagine that some of the work that I’m doing around money isn’t related to this sudden “windfall.” I’ve been in a limbo of not knowing whether I have work from week to week and day to day for the last few months. And now, “suddenly,” I’m asked to stay on for 6 weeks – 6 STABLE weeks? I sent out those letters last week to former employers (see: Bollocks) letting them know that I was a lousy employee and that I was trying to do better. And in the intervening week, I have been trying to do better – and think I’m progressing along those lines.

Also, it’s hard to imagine that my work of freeing myself from “wrong” sources of power and validation (see: yesterday, and the entire history of my life…) aren’t in some way influencing the curvature of this road.

Sure, it could all be “coincidence.” Nothing to do with anything, but I don’t believe that, personally. But. Nor do I believe that I am “rewarded” for “good” behavior (and thusly, punished for bad). I rather believe that as I let go of behaviors which aren’t serving me, I’m more available for the good things the world has to offer. Usually those things were available all along, but I’ve been too busy peering down the dry well, begging it to be water, that I miss the river.

Whatever the cause and effect, or lack thereof, I’m grateful. Hugely. I bought a (cute, but) cheapy new notebook for my morning pages yesterday. I intend to take another look at how I planned to distribute my funds this month. Because the truth is, even though I hadn’t planned or had money in the item lines of entertainment, or notebooks, or toiletries – the reality is that I spent money in them anyway.

Last night, I found a note from February when I was meeting with some money folk, and there’s a huge note-to-self that says to be honest about my needs, so that I don’t overspend.

This month, instead of having been honest about what I really need, I wrote up a meager, scarce, and skeletal spending plan, and of course I haven’t stuck to it. Be honest about my needs. They’re not overwhelming, they’re not indulgent, they just are what they are.

And I can allow myself to own and take care of them, while I breathe into my abs of jello. 

Bollocks.

Through a series of work I’m doing right now, I sent out a stack of three letters to former employers yesterday, each with a variation on the theme – I was an unprofessional employee, I am sorry for how I behaved, and I aim to be more responsible in my jobs now and going forward.

The messed up, fucked up, I-don’t-want-to-do-this part of all that is… that now I have to stick to my word – the word about being a better employee going forward. This means, fewer endless hours on facebook while at work (if any at all); it means taking my breaks so I’m refreshed to actually do work instead of sit and stare at whatever I’m doing; it means being efficient in my work. I means, basically, doing what I’m paid to be doing.

I don’t like that. And, yet, I know how completely necessary it is. I’ve been talking here about responsibility lately, how I don’t want it, but that I do want the things that come to people who are responsible – in their work, extracurricular, and home lives. So, if I want what they have, then I must do what they do.

I don’t have to. Sure, I can say one thing and do another, but in truth, that feels, obviously, worse. Better to not say anything at all, and continue to slide along on half-steam, than to say that I’m making changes so that I don’t slide along on half-steam and then not do it.

Most recently, having the (rated G) dalliance with the married man, I got to see very acutely where I was either going to stick to the letter of my word or not. I’ve had to make many an amends to women whose boyfriends, and, once, a fiancé, with whom I’ve dallied. I told them each, specifically, that I was making changes in my life so that I don’t act like that anymore – that I was sorry for how I behaved, and that I wouldn’t do it again.

So, when I began talking in the flirtatious way with this man about a month ago, I knew – I felt – how off this was. How against everything that I’d set up over the last few years this was. How, basically, I was breaking my promise to each of them, and indeed to myself – having promised myself that I wouldn’t behave in ways around men that would make me feel bad about myself, or guilty, or ashamed.

And so, I stopped the dalliance with the man, and am now newly engaged in a body of work to help extricate and sever and lay to rest the last of the beliefs and behaviors that influence me to believe that this is all that is available to me, or what I deserve.

So, here I am, now, about work. About telling these folks that I fucked up in the past, and I’m trying to do better. That, specifically, I will be more responsible and work with more integrity. And, I know, now, that I’ll have to stick to it. I know how it feels from that recent experience to come right up against something I said I wouldn’t do – I know how icky it feels, and against my morals. And so, now, I must take that same self-line into the professional world.

And I hate it.

I know it’s good for me. I know it’ll open doors for me, and duh, it’s the right thing to do. But, Oh! My Beautiful Wickedness!, I don’t “want” to. Luckily, it doesn’t quite matter whether I want to or not. Pain will always push me in the direction forward. I don’t want to feel the pain of being a hypocrite, so I will work better. I don’t want to feel ashamed that I’m not living to my word, so I’ll stop accepting jobs that I know I’ll work half-steam at.

I don’t like it. It feels like an entirely new level of adulthood to go toward this direction of integrity. But it’s necessary, and it’s time.

I have no doubt that the opening up of this line of vision will amount to something more in my professional life. I have no doubt that by working to a better standard of duty that I’ll feel better about myself and less like a fraud. I know that this will take me somewhere different internally and externally. But, still, it sucks.

It’s like this is what teenagers experience when they get into their 20s maybe. Or, these days, 20somethings into their 30s. I’d love to learn this now. It’s late, but it is certainly a better late than never.

I also wrote an email last night to a recent former employer to apologize for how I ended my employment there, and to ask for clarity around some money they gave me to pay off the last of my braces when I had them a few years ago. He said that they had dental, so it was covered, and no liability to me. He said that he did think I “handled the separation badly.” And he said that if I ever needed a reference that he has “[my] back.” I’m glad to know that the money is clear. I agree that I could have handled things differently. And for fuck’s sake, I promise that I will handle them differently in the future.

Change sucks. Especially when it’s good for me. 

Chop Wood, Carry Water.

Two weeks ago, I wrote this in the Grownupness blog:

"I grasp at things I think I want, but I’m not willing to firm the foundation to get there – to mix the mortar, lay the bricks. Chop wood, carry sticks. That’s where I need to be at. Very simply, I need to lay hold of qualities and actions that I have tried to avoid."

And so, this weekend, I carried sticks.

The simplicity of camping, even in the complexity of “car camping” the bastardized cousin of “real” camping, was so easy. It’s so easy for me. What needs to be done next? Well, we’re heading out down the river for the afternoon while others go river rafting (a luxury expense I couldn’t afford), so what did I need to bring? Sunscreen, towel, book I didn’t crack, hat, water. That’s it.

It’s turning darker, what do we need to do? Get more firewood, build a fire, refill the water, not at the mercury-laden river’s edge.

There are things that I know how to do, and this weekend, I got to see that very clearly. I know how to build a fire, I know you need something like paper or brush to catch under the kindling to catch under the wood blocks that were neatly chopped for us in a bundle wrapped with plastic. I know that I need to slather sunscreen on myself and wear a hat because I’m paranoid of skin cancer since my encounter with the Australian sun – the sun won.

I know how to make coffee, and put up a tent and roll my sleeping bag and to remember to bring earplugs and tarot cards ;)

I know how to camp. At least, I know how to car camp.

When I unfurled my sleeping bag, in it was a long-sleeved shirt I hadn’t seen in two years, since I was in that tent, with someone else.

I played Ghosts of Camping Trips Past this weekend. Remembering acutely who I’d been with and when. Each and every one of the even mildly significant and more significant relationships I’ve been in over the last six years, I’ve been camping with that person. I haven’t slept in that tent alone in a long time.

This particular camp grounds, I’d been to maybe 3 or 4 years ago, when I’d been newly dating someone. It’s a beautiful spot on the American River, up past Sacramento, and almost to Tahoe. It’s amenitied out the yin-yang, but that’s alright. I remember the photo of me and that person in that very landscape, I remember the release I feel when I’m out there. Not with the person, but out there, knowing and feeling confident that I know even that little bit.

I haven’t roughed it. I haven’t hiked out into the woods and set up camp since I was 19 and leading a camp group overnight with our packs into the Appalachian Mountains. And even then, it wasn’t roughing it – That’s alright. I know it’s something I still want to do.

I wondered why it was, as I went through my previous camping trips over the last few years, that each had included a man I’ve been involved with. Was this my test for them? For “us”? Was I only able to be there with someone else?

No. The reason, I realized, is because I love camping. And I happen to go and be invited, and then I happen to invite the guy I’m with. That’s all. Turns out, camping is a hobby, I suppose. It’s likely the only same thing that has occurred with each relationship I’ve had over the last few years. The only “adventure” or “event” or excursion that has happened in each involvement. It just points out to me that this is an important thing for me. Something I love.

A way that I don’t feel I need to be any different than I actually am.

I feel confident out there (yes, even with the general store and port-o-potties nearby). But I feel like myself. I usually look like a wreck, and I don’t care. My hair matted and loved by the sweat and dust and river mist. Caked in various layers of SPF lotions and supportive sneakers. I don’t look like Xena, I look like me. Like the me I am in private, with no one to impress or stun or mesmerize. Like the me I am when it’s just me. Whole, and unabashed, and unprotected. And capable. I usually feel like a leader, or at least like a competent person when I’m out there. Something those of you who read this blog with any consistency can attest is not my normal M.O. out in the “real world.”

I needed that. I needed to feel worthy and valuable simply for who I was/am. Not for how I looked. Or for how much money I had. Or for what kind of job I worked. Or what cell phone I carried. Or degree I had. I could be valuable for my contributions to the group, be it building a fire, or fetching the water, or going off to sit and do my Morning Pages out on a rock in the middle of the rushing river so that I could be more present and emptied of my junk when I returned to the group. I could be valuable by bringing Madlibs to do by the fire at night – which led to so much hilarity, and stupid good fun. I could be valuable by making coffee the first morning when everyone was still asleep or grumpy. I could be valuable by breaking out the guitar one of us brought for a little while, and later, sing along harmonies with her, and remember that I have a voice.

I felt purposeful. I didn’t question who I was or where I was going or what I was doing with my life. I didn’t have any profound judgments or insights. I simply “chopped wood, carried water” (no chopping this trip, but you know what I mean). If I can take that simplicity, and that confidence, and that sense of pleasure from being precisely who I was/am into the world, I think I’ll be alright.

If I can dress nicely and put on makeup, and remember that it’s just a lens through which to see the whole that I am.

If I can breathe in the fire smoke scent of my balled-up clothing and recall what it feels like when I’m just me, then I think I’ll be alright. 

Progress, Not Perfection.

So, I did not sleep with my okJew on the second date. We did however come back to my place, and have a rather heated make-out session.

It was lovely. But. I feel today no better. I realize today that even though we didn’t sleep together, which was something I didn’t want to do, knowing him so briefly, that I still feel a sense of sadness around it. And in writing some about it, I realize that it’s sad because I still don’t fully believe in my own inherent worth – that I’m more than my body.

Even when we were making out, however fun it was – and it was, and I’m sure that if we ever do have sex, there will be no problem in that regard – but I felt not fully present. I felt a little disconnected – and, really, I was. I was disconnected from the emotions that can come when you are making out with someone you know, like, and maybe even more than like. I was only acting from one part of myself, not all of me.

And, knowing that, I notice the desire to pack “Beauty” back up behind her glass terarrium, and say, see, you can’t be trusted. But really, it’s not her fault. I didn’t have to come back to my place – it could have been a short date. I didn’t have to have the extended make-out session – I could have ended it earlier. But, I did. And this is where “progress, not perfection” comes in. Because I really could beat myself up here, and retreat back into isolation, and a position of “See, you really don’t know how to hold intimacy and sexuality, so you better pack it in.”

Yes, I could do that, but I don’t think that’s the point here. The point is that I realize that heavy teenage-like petting is a little more than I want to do on a second date. I realize that I still want to feel known more than that, and have more of a connection before getting so physical. I have so much f’ing evidence of how much sex before emotional intimacy is the cart before the horse, and so, yes, I can beat myself up for not having learned that “well enough,” or I can be glad that I didn’t have sex when I didn’t really want to, and be glad that I let him know it was time to go, and didn’t interpret his erection as an obligation, as I wrote yesterday. (But, … Whoo-ee! … anyway…) ;)

So, there’s that. Of course, I begin to go all the way to, now I better let him know what I’m looking for before there’s a third date, and another round of, okay thanks, bye! That I need to explain what I’m available for, and to ask if that’s what he’s available for.

Some of this sounds valid, some of it sounds unnecessary. I tend to be an oversharer. I don’t think I need to do that, or at least, I don’t need to do that today. I won’t see him again, likely, for another week or so, as he’s busy during the week, and I’m camping this weekend, so I have time to let some of this dust settle and ask some women, and see what happens.

We did have a good date, overall. In fact, it was a great date. But I feel overshadowed by my remorse.

Again, it comes back to choice. I can choose to see this as a failure, and head down to self-flagellation, and I’ll never get it, and how come you don’t get that you’re worth it – that makes you so not worth it. (A lovely circle of reasoning, that one.) Or. Or I can choose to see this as an opportunity, as I spoke so much of yesterday. An opportunity to notice my growth and change, and also to be happy (or at least contented) that I do notice how I’m feeling, and how I was feeling last night. I wasn’t feeling present, and that I wasn’t feeling present is a good thing. That I noticed it. Noticing it is the first step, I think. Then I can work on doing something about it.

I’ve written a lot of poetry about not feeling present during sex. Now, I know that that can extend to making out if I’m not properly known by someone, and they’re not known by me. This person is nearly an entirely unknown entity – of course I don’t feel intimate.

So, I can choose to take this as information for next time – whether that’s with this person, or someone down the line. I can choose to allow myself a little bit of affirmation over keeping my pants on. I can choose to acknowledge that I’ve come a long way to be so present with myself to notice these even slightly off-kilter parts of me.

Forgive the reference… but, in the final Twilight book (spoiler alert?), the main character, Bella, throws an invisible defensive bubble out around herself and her family during the cumulative battle. Imagine it almost like a Bio-Dome, to mix pop-culture metaphors. In the book, Bella can feel as one of the opponents pokes into the various places of her bubble, looking for a weak spot – testing the defenses, and seeing how strong it is. I feel very similarly about this work with dating/physicality. I feel that my bubble is being poked and prodded, and I’m getting to see where I still have spots of weakness, or places that can be firmed up.

I am sad that I don’t yet feel that I’m worth more than my body, or that I could be wanted or acknowledged or “seen” for more than my physical self. But, this is simply a place of “weakness,” a place where I could use more care and strength and affirmation, and behavior that will support the idea that I am more than that. So, I am glad for the opportunity. I’ve been shown where there’s work to do – and if that’s not what relationships are for, then I’ve got the wrong game. 

How to Not Lose Your Car in Twelve Easy Steps:

Six years ago today, I woke up, or came to is more like, in a room in my shared apartment in the Sunset District on San Francisco. In my room was everything I’d brought with me to San Francisco, so, two suitcases, and a pillow. When I’d moved into the room, I didn’t even have a bed.

In the other rooms in the house, lived the “angriest pot head I’ve ever met” (though I concede, I could be more than a bit techy myself), and another lanky UCSF student who liked to talk about LOST.

That morning, I got myself together, and went out to drive downtown to a job interview I’d gotten through a temp agency. I’d been in San Francisco two weeks to the very day.

Outside, I realized I had no idea where I’d parked my car. The day before, my only SF friend’s boyfriend’s band was playing at the Park Chalet out by Ocean Beach, and I’d gone, for the first time in my memory, with the intention that I was not going to drink that day. But, we all know a Bloody Mary is a breakfast drink… and so, several pitchers and hours later, I come to in the middle of a conversation with a dude I don’t know.

The band was gone. The sun was setting. And my friend was no where to be seen. I excused myself from this stranger, and called my friend to ask where they were, and she told me I’d said to leave me there. I asked where they were, she said the Marina. So, I stumble to my car, … and realize I have no idea where “The Marina” is. So I ask a passing couple if they do. And the first thing they ask is, Are you sure you’re okay to drive? Sure… No problem.

Once in my car, I realize I need gas, so I decide to do that first, and then, by Divine intervention realize I’m too drunk to go out, and drive back to my apartment and pass out.

Therefore, the next morning, as I stand squinting in the rising light, I have zero recollection of where my car is, and I begin to walk in increasingly large circles of blocks looking for it. I call the police – Have you towed it? I call the tow lot – Is it there? No. After nearly a half-hour of increasedly frantic walking, I turn the corner on my way back to my apartment, and there it is. Parked nice and neat just around the corner from my house.

I apparently was not sure if I was parked “nice and neat,” however, as scrawled across my dashboard is a note that reads, “PLEASE DON’T TOW MY CAR. THANK YOU.” And my phone number.

That was the last morning I woke up hungover.

For six years, I have not washed beer grime out of my clothing. I have not managed my drinking with a steady pace of water or advil or corona to polka dot the vodka. I have not puked in six years. I haven’t peed while leaning against the side of a building. I haven’t woken up next to a stranger. I haven’t slept with taken men.

I don’t have “UDI”s – a college-invented term: Unidentified Drunken Injuries. You know, those bruises you really don’t know how you got. I don’t have names saved in my phone as “Pinky Guy,” “Bar Nana,” or “Scary Scott.” For six years, I’ve known where I am when I wake up.

And here’s where I am when I wake up today. Strikingly similarly, I am heading into downtown San Francisco today to apply for a job. I’m following up in person on an application to a gallery job I applied for last week. I’ll be going through the rest of that building with my resume as well, and be leafleting for my workshop next Saturday.

This morning, I wake up in my own apartment. My very own studio. With furniture. A cat – my monument to a crumbling resistance to commitment and love. Car stolen, I have a bus pass and many logged BART hours. I have a bicycle, and a coffee maker, and magnetic poetry on my refrigerator.

My life is imminently different than it was six years ago. Yet, there are some details that I want to label as “the same” – single, unemployed, financially insecure. But these are just similarities, not clones. The difference between how I will show up to the job search today is that it began with Morning Pages, meditation, and a blog to you, friends who I’ve met over these last six years – people who actually, sometimes, maybe, sorta, like me! From here, I’ll go hang out with some of you folks for an hour, and remind myself of the miracle it is that I get to walk through all this. All this human emotion and life-strewn eventfulness.

My life is eventful – but not chaotic. My life path is vague – but not hopeless. Most of all, my heart is warming – and my soul doesn’t house that painfully threadbare echo-chamber anymore.

I still get to practice. I’ve absolutely loved engaging in a thrilling, alluring, morally ambiguous "Drink with Two Legs" distraction this past few days – it’s been wonderful to feel something other than uncomfortable. But in the end, my conscience (and my exuberantly caring friend) reminded me yesterday that I’m living in a way so that I don’t have to feel bad about myself or my behavior anymore. So that I don’t have to clean anything up later, if I can help it (unless it’s dishes). I’ve watched myself walk to the edge of decency, and reel myself absolutely kicking and screaming back from the temptation to throw myself in.

See, my life is full of people who remind me that there is a better way. That this is only a beginning, and that I can hang on to the love that I’ve built within myself. That it's safe to do so.

I thank you, Danger-Will-Robinson lure, for your welcome and passionate resurrection of a part of me that has long been dormant. And I thank YOU, reader, friend, lovers, G-d, for helping me to learn there’s nothing wrong with my Vixen, as long as she doesn’t slice away at my self-esteem.

So, here's to six years of learning the easy way, the hard way. To six years of sitting in rooms with people who are learning the same. To six years of showing up on every inch of the spectrum from megalithic tantrum to blissfully serene. And to just one more day of this unusually verdant path. 

Movie Magic

In an effort to vary what’s become to me a rather one-note blog lately, I’ve decided to lie.

I recently earned a decent wage from my spirituality & creativity workshops, and am supplementing my income with sales of my art work. Further, I am feeling so rejuvenated and supported by these avenues of income and service, that I have enough energy and creativity left over to practice with my new band – We play our first show this weekend.

There … did that work?

Well, in some circles, one might call that a “vision,” or dream. A goal, per se. And in those circles, Visions are highly regarded as lighthouses for us in the dark nights of the soul. So, I’ll take what I can get. It may feel like pretend, like fantasy, as I cannot see how to get from A to Z, but I don’t have to. Those are places that resonate with me to my core. If we add in that I’m a member of a local theater company, and we just ended our sold-out run, I think I’d hit nirvana.

I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this here, though I’ve used this metaphor before.

It’s like in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Yep. That’s right. I’m going there.

When Indy, as we affectionately call him, is on his way through the cave to get to the Holy Grail, he comes to a ravine. There is no way to cross this. As it appears, Indy stands on one side, clinging to a statue of a Lion, and about 15 or 20 feet away, is the other side of the ravine, and the path to the Grail.

There is no way. He cannot “jump” it, it’s egregiously deep and sharp and craggy. And so, he recites the clue, as if the words somehow will give him wings.

“A leap of faith from the lion’s mouth.” A leap of faith. This is nuts. A leap of faith. But there’s nothing down there. A leap of faith. Fuck It.

He takes one step forward from the safety of the rock... and is held, solid and firm. The camera pans out from his angle, and we see that hidden, blended into the ravine walls, is a firm, stone bridge. Had he not stepped out from where he was, he wouldn’t have the vision to see that he was firmly taken care of the whole time. That there wasn’t a moment at which he was unsafe. He just needed to take that first step out from perceived safety to perceived risk.

Metaphors like this keep me going.

I’m a visual person, and a child of the 80s, so throw in a "Goonies never say die," and I’m ready to pack my rucksack, hitch up my courage, and step forward.

Despite my crawing about it here, it’s been suggested that I let other people know about the state of my affairs, if only to take my isolation out of it. Funnily, a woman whom I’m not fond of yesterday instructed me to “Figure It Out.” I could have slapped her. (Funnier still, it's already been strongly suggested that I choose another woman for these monthly meetings I have with my financial folks - which I haven't done yet... point taken?)

But, it all reminds me of another phrase, “You can’t save your face and your ass at the same time.”

I suppose belly-aching is different than sharing. Different from being open. I’d like to submit that I’ve done a little of both, and what I recognize is that I do have some blinders on. I do stand like Indy with a limited view of things.

And if sharing with other folks my honest truth, without being maudlin or Debbie Downer, can help me to take the next leap into the unknown, then alright.

Camera Pans Right.

Lights up on microphone. 

The 11th Hour

So, to get to the important info first, of course. The internet-met coffee date was a bust. Not an ounce of chemistry on my end, so, after about a half hour of waiting on the slowest coffee drinker in the world, I declined the invitation to go to eat or to the park, and went on my way.

I’m glad I felt comfortable enough to do that, despite the CREST FALLEN face when I replied, Actually I think I’m going to go. That man is not a poker player.

But, on my way I went. I caught a bus up to see a girl friend of mine, and we had a sojourn to Ocean Beach. It was more than lovely.

Regarding the title of this blog however, I feel like I’m here again. I’ve said in the past that usually what happens around money and jobs is that “something comes through” in the 11^th hour. This has always been true, and despite my dire, apocalyptic belly-aching about the sodium-laden brick, I haven’t eaten any Top Ramen in the last several years.

Part of what I’ve recognized though is that I come to a point at some time during my “what am I going to do next”ness where I “go rag-doll on G-d,” as my friend puts it. You know when you’re in a grocery store, and a parent is holding hands with a child, and the child is cranky or tired and doesn’t want to go or walk anymore, and the kid just goes limp. And has to be dragged by the parent a few steps.

Yeah, that’s going ragdoll on G-d. It’s like, I’m not sure what the fuck to do, so I’ll just let you pull me. That feeds back into the whole “lack of self-esteem around jobs” though when I throw up my hands, and just wait for the 11^th hour – when I know inevitably something will have to happen. I really haven’t been dropped, ever.

But, I’m not comfortable doing that anymore. It makes me feel young, and childish, and like a recipient, rather than an active participant in my own life.

So, I guess I’m at the point of finding some sort of balance between trying to “figure it out” and throwing up my hands in frustration and impertinent surrender. “Alright, Universe, Fate, G-d, whatever you are, you obviously have some better idea about my life than I do, so HERE. Go ahead. It’s all yours. Fuck it.”

The former makes me crazy, and the latter lacks integrity & a fair balanced view.

So, what’s the middle way?

…*crickets*…

Perhaps it starts with the recognition that I don’t want to do either. I am still taking action. Applying to jobs, looking at websites around the country, trying not to be too limited, but not too focused, because I really still have no f’ing idea where or when or why. It IS the 11^th hour. June approaches, and my bank account approaches zero.

So, how, in what sense-memory tells me is the "same place," do I stand on my two feet, and let myself be guided rather than dragged? How do I stand with integrity and surrender?

Well, yesterday I did make a phone date with a girl friend bassist for this afternoon. I also did ask my theater instructor for an informational interview coffee date. And, I did show up to that date yesterday, not knowing what would happen, but being willing to try something new - and hideously uncomfortable (somehow, "we met on the internet" doesn't make a great retelling...)

And, to be honest, I still have the hope that in the 11^th hour, there will be a miracle – because there always is – but I don’t want to stand around waiting for it. I want to meet it. That feels more “adult,” or humble, or something. More of value.

But, what do I know, I just work here.

Here’s to the middle way – letting go, but walking forward – it may be into the dark, but my eyes will adjust. 

Pulling a Carmen: 2

When I began this blog-a-day back in November of last year, my first post was called “Pulling a Carmen,” as I'd been reading and was encouraged by her own blog-a-day postings. In the time since, sometimes I just find it hugely funny how parallel my path is to my fellow blogger and friend.

For recent example:

• I also just starting going back on to the internet dating scene. In fact, I have a coffee date today with someone I met on JDate

• I too have said fuck it, and asked out a dude yesterday. Unfortunately, turns out he’s married, but it felt really good to do so.

• Several of the books that are lining my desk and bedside table are travel books about Europe, underlining my intention to take a real freaking vacation some time this century.

• And, I also rented a camera and video camera from the school’s A/V department to begin taking pictures again. 

Sometimes I feel awkward about our exceedingly similar trajectories, as if I’m copying her, but the reality is that independently, we come to these things, and then come here to write about them. It’s really funny, and also somewhat comforting to know that there is someone who is traveling a similar path toward “To thine own self be true.”

On that note, I went to see my friend’s band play in the city last night, and then headed with my girlfriends to go out dancing in Oakland. Prior to both these… we went to the Dharma Punx meditation – nothing says spiritually fit like meditating for 40 minutes before downing coffee with an add-shot. ;)

But to relate it to the ‘self be true’ part – each of these are places where I want to feel more connection. I hadn’t been to see live music in MUCH too long. It’s on my current list of “Serenity Moths” on my refrigerator (a list of things that aren’t cataclysmic, but slowly and subterraneaously eat away at my serenity and foundation). Yes, “Absence of live music” is on there, and so should be “dancing.” I’m a white girl. I have no ambition or goal to be anything but a mildly flailing Elaine Benice, but … i love it. The absence of self, the absence of self criticism or posturing or need to be anywhere or anything else. Lost in the music.

The band brought something else up for me. Like the “dropping” of the whole acting bent at the beginning of this year, what I’ve dropped more often than anything is the “being in a band” idea.

As you may know, I have 2 guitars, a bass, and a small USB plug in keyboard. Each as dust-covered as the next. The bass amp sits as a monument to abandoned dreams in my apartment.

Last night, watching my friend’s band, I remembered that this is something I want to do. In fact, I’d emailed one of the guitarist’s wife about 6 or more months ago to talk to her about her own process of getting toward singing in a band - embracing her inner teenage rock chick. If I had my … well, if I had my own back, I guess, I’d play bass, and I’d sing. Talk about vulnerability.

This week, I stood practically naked in front of an audience and spoke my poem into a microphone in a moderately full theater. That isn’t nearly as frightening to me as standing in front of an audience, singing, or playing.

The truth is that for several years, I’ve been gathering information about the whole bass playing thing. But, no, I haven’t been playing. A few years ago, I asked a guy I knew for bass advice, and he sent me a long list of places to start (which I didn't pursue). About a year later, I contacted this other guy about bass lessons (which I didn't pursue). … And the guy I asked out yesterday is also a bass player. Apparently, I have a thing.

Every few years, I’ll troll craigslist, and I’ll answer a few ads for singers. I even recorded myself a little on my computer’s Garageband to send as a sample. I got a “not a good fit, but thanks anyway” from one, and no reply from another. And, hey, I don’t blame em. When I’m terrified, it comes through. I don’t know. I’ve written here about it kind of frequently – and dismissed it and been “embarrassed” by it just as often.

However, once again, the thing that occurred to me last night as I watched my friend’s band was another case of “I want to do that” … followed by “I can do that.” There is no one stopping me, obviously except for myself and my fears, and that critic that says “Not good enough” and chops me off at the knees before I start.

One thing I’m working on releasing at the moment, a pattern and belief and behavior that is just not fucking serving me anymore, is my need or habit to stay small.

When I was living in South Korea, my friend nicknamed me “Ballsy Mollsy.” I had the absolute chutzpah and hubris to ask anyone anything, go anywhere, and do pretty much whatever I felt like doing in the hedonistic way most drunks do.

However, there is a quality of that Ballsy woman who still I am, somewhere, and who I want to resurrect or reveal or uncover or let loose – or even just let into the light a little tiny bit.

I find it’s happening in some ways. And I know to have compassion for myself as I try to aim in this direction which has been a Siren song for me (uh, no pun intended) for … oh, 15 years.

But compassion for slow progress, and acceptance of stagnation are two different things. And I’d really like to move forward from here.

So, for your reading pleasure, here’s a poem composed about a year ago. Reading aloud is encouraged.  As is recalling the line "So let it be written, so let it be done." Cheers. m.

Band Practice

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Thru my own contributions

So, to catch you up on the caffeine reduction experiment, it’s still going, and going rather well – the one cup of regular, followed by as much decaf and black tea as necessary. Which haven’t been hugely necessary – but I’m still in the throes of the equalizing. There have been a few (like 2 or 3) days of 2 or 3 cups, which I think are prolonging the experiment, but overall, I haven’t felt like I miss it. Although, I’m still rather pooped in the mornings. I think this is more to do with my bed time than my start time though. With the experiment, I think I need to allow myself to be in bed earlier, and for a few days, I was, even a week or so, I was pretty diligent about it – but I’ve fallen off.

It’s time to get back on schedule though. Yesterday, I was up and out, semi-early, but not my normal early, to do some last minute errands with the car before I returned it – G-d bless Enterprise car rental. (They allow you to rent a car w/ a debit card, and the rates really aren’t that bad – granted, I split the whole cost with my friend from NJ.) But after my bout of exertion, I spent the rest of the day on my couch doing much of nothing – which I spent a lot of this morning’s pages lamenting about – but, I can’t drink yesterday’s orange juice today (as they say – as in, I can’t get double nutrients, or activity, etc, today, in order to make up for yesterday – each day is set new) – so there’s no use, really, in bemoaning my vegetative state!

What is wonderful to notice though, is that because I’ve been using this tool of a daily schedule, planning in the morning when I’ll do my R+D (i.e. income generating actions) and when I’ll do homework, or art, or walk, or … nap, it’ll be much easier for me to get back onto track. Especially with the end of school creeping up like a midnight stalker.

Thesis is due on Friday, signed, sealed, and delivered. I’m getting the last copy of my manuscript that’s out there to friends back this morning, and then today, spend time editing it all together. In the meantime, I’m also supposed to be writing this new script for the performance class, and I feel so far away from it – though, again, I was writing some about it this morning, and think it’s doable and interesting and fun. But, thinking about it, and doing it are two different things.

I bought this book recently called “Steal like an Artist.” My friend and I were in the millionth Bay Area bookstore this weekend – though surprisingly, not bored by them – and I saw this book on the counter. I picked it up, read the first little bit, and thought, I’d love to underline and highlight this sucker. So Many Gems. So, I bought it. As you may know, I’m not a book buyer. I am a library fanatic – as outstanding debts to several libraries have informed me over the years. (I actually didn’t receive a diploma the day I graduated and “walked” for my undergrad – inside the fancy black folder all embossed and engraved with the school emblem … was a note that said, you owe the library $45 – please submit to release your diploma. … Ha. Funny part is, I still had the books, knew precisely where they were, I just hadn’t returned them, for no particular reason. … a “quality to let go,” one may say, which I still need to let go.)

In any case, this book was not something I’d read and shelve, never to see again, this was a reference book, in many ways. I’m enjoying reading it, and getting a lot of great info from it – I recommend – go buy ;)

One thing I will say it mentioned was an economic theory that if you average your 5 best friends’ incomes, yours will be somewhere around there. So, I began to think about my 5 best friends. The one on unemployment, the one living on student loans, and the few others who are earning income, but I realized that, yeah, my income is certainly somewhere between nada and something modest. It’s not a judgment of my best friends – moreso, it tells me something about myself – and the truth that I know it’s time for me to make changes.

I am making them. Slowly. I met with a few folks on Sunday to talk about income strategies, finance stuff – and a very interesting fact of clarity came out of the conversation. As I’m working on this Creativity & Spirituality workshop – one for free at school this month, and one for fee in SF next month – we calculated that if I fill the workshop in May, as in completely full (20 people) at the rate we agreed was adequate (balancing my modest skill level with the value of my work and time), I’d earn nearly my entire expense costs for a month. This, is really good news. But also brings up fear of the future – does that mean I have to do the workshop monthly – can I? How do you garner enough interest to make it sustainable? Won’t I continually be marketing to the same people? How do I branch out?

And then, I bring it back into the day. Today, I just need to focus on what’s in front of me. I do have to focus quite a bit, I realize, on the marketing of the workshop in May, but that’s it right now. I have some great pointers, and I’m rather good at that stuff, and I know a crap load of people, and I have a crap load of resources to call on. Further, I won’t just be hitting up the people I know – as, duh, yes, that would be annoying to them, and that’s not a sustainable resource – but I will also be expanding my reach to new venues, and new networks – as people have told me they’d love to spread the word in circles I’d never have access to ordinarily.

So, it is all the more important that I recover my bit of structure with my daily schedule, as I had been, and that I get to sleep on time so that I’m present enough to sow the seeds of self-support.

Arrangement

One phrase a single woman should never utter: Cat, stop eating my flowers.

I bought myself flowers this week, as I now do periodically, and the man at the flower stand, who went off on a very long monologue about the upcoming new year for his religion, which I believe I gathered was Russian Orthodox, told me that he’d been thinking about me. This older gentleman, who I didn’t believe worked at the stand the first time I saw him there, and I waited for the woman who I normally interacted with. I thought he was some sort of flower stand hanger-on, or the woman’s husband (which he is), but a person who didn’t know much about flowers or flower arrangements.

That time, he began to randomly pluck flowers from their black watery bins, and show them to me, “This? … This?” and as I shook my head, I became more convinced that he did not in fact work there.

Turns out, he did, and he does, but that first time, I waited for his wife anyway, and walked away with a beautiful spray of day lilies – the kind that smelled, as many in California do not, I found out from the woman – that the kind that do, come from places where the land does get cold in winter – like back in New Jersey, where we grew them along the side of my house, and every summer the whole length of the house smelled of day lilies. So, I always hunt for the ones that smell.

This week when I went, it was just the man, and his strange information about seven things that they put on an altar for their new year, including hyacinth and some sort of branch, which he said is why he’d been thinking of me – that it was all very beautiful, but not as beautiful as me. … Now, I play along, I’m charming, and he’s very delightful to have made up this story on the spot, or maybe it was true. But it was a strange ending to this long religious info session. And I walked away, with my bunch of flowers.

These flowers, this arrangement, is not pretty. It’s got some spiky, scaggy deep purple sprays of some sort. An anemone-looking orange one that probably eats live things in its other life. A stalk of not-so-fresh looking sunrise flowers. A few branches of pussy-willow, and one stem of day lilies – the smelling kind.

It sort of looks, overall, like a thanksgiving/fall style color palette, and it is not pretty in the conventional way that I usually like my flowers to be. But, it is beautiful in its own way. It is not something I would have chosen.

I suppose I’m moved to write about it, them, this interaction, because it sort of speaks to a few things for me. The first is that, when someone compliments me, I assume it’s bunk. That it’s to get something from me, like more business in this case. The second is that I knew I wasn’t liking the arrangement he was making, but because of his compliment and certainty in his work, I let it go, and took what I was being given. And third, of course, not all beautiful things are pretty.

The third, I’ll accept. It’s true. Things in this world are to be marveled at, but they’re not always attractive in conventional ways, and you may have to squint to see its beauty. So, this is partly about letting go of my ideas about things in general. My proscribed black-and-white, good/not good, thinking.

To the second, I ought to have said something. Just because I was complimented doesn’t mean I have to take what’s being handed to me. I am glad I have the flowers, but I do wish I had asked for something other than a handful of motley and slightly craggy plants. This, speaks to many things in my life and how I’ve lived it up to now.

And to the first, about dismissing compliments, well, that’s back to the accepting support thing that I’m working on currently. To believe that I am worthy of notice, support, love, and encouragement. And that perhaps people aren't pulling my chain, or trying to get something from me, that perhaps I have something genuine that people like and are attracted to. To believe, as it were, that not every rose has its thorn … 

Magical Accidental Orgasm

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.

Make It Work

True to the mixed bag that life is, yesterday was a mixed day. I’m insanely grateful that I wrote my confirmation of the goodness of the Universe blog before I checked my email yesterday morning. Because in that email was one from Thursday from my thesis advisor which stated that my blog cannot be my thesis – that it is being rejected. … And further that she strongly recommends, “no, let me put it more firmly,” she writes, that I must go “thesis in progress.”

TIP means that I pay about $500 for the luxury of not having to turn something in this semester. It means that I pause the thesis process and am able to work on it and deliver something and meet with her still over the course of the next year. It also means that I cannot “walk” for graduation in May.

I write her back that this is my reluctancy to do this. And that for the love of G-d, I want to be “done” when I am done. But I don’t tell her that this time; I’d already done so in our previous ... terse email exchange before I handed in my blog in a “well, I don’t have anything better to give” moment.

She says back that, okay, bring all the poetry I’ve got when we meet on Tuesday, and we’ll try to make something work, “no promises.” Cobble something together out of poetry and prose, and to clear my slate for the next month to do a lot of revision, and who knows, she says, “you may just like it.”

Sniff. Ahem. It’s not that I don’t like writing, or haven't enjoyed writing poetry in the past. But, she asked me, I just don’t get it, didn’t you come here to write a book? And this is where she and I are on very different pages. What I have to inform her, I don’t know if I do. But, no, lady, I did not come to school to write a book. I have no aspirations to be published. I believe there is a rich landscape of poets whom I consider awful to not my style but have much merit to striking and inspiring. Do I really feel the overwhelming need to put my voice in with them? As a book? In that limited particular, stick on a shelf in some dusty graduate school library and possibly a few books stores with shelves already lined with a million books in an underlit poetry corner?

No. I don’t have an overwhelming need to do that.

Do I believe in my voice? Yes. That’s what I’m doing here, in this blog. With my community, and in other creative manners. Do I believe that even if there are a million other people on the shelf that I have as much a right as any of them to add my voice? Of course. But that doesn’t mean I want to. Not now. Not in this way.

But, I've now recognized the pattern I have with her, which is her as the little man in The Wizard of Oz in the circlular porthole of the gigantic green Emerald City door saying “No way No how, nobody gets in to see the wizard.” And we exchange a few emails, and then she says, Well, we’ll see what we can do.

In the time between No Way No How, and We’ll See What We Can Do, I am thrust into a dither of indignation, righteousness, misunderstoodness, and despair. And then, on the other side, I am back to feet on the ground, Okay, cool, we’ll see what we can do, hope, things can and will work out – they always do, and I have faith that by doing some work it will.

That, dearests, is not her fault or her problem. That I get thrown WAAAAY overboard into a tizzy is not her fault. And now, especially that I see the pattern, I am more prepared for it, and more able to do what I’ve heard other people say, which is “to wear the world as a loose garment.”

The reality is, yes, my family has plans to come out to see me walk for graduation. I don’t believe they have their plane tickets yet though. I do want to walk at graduation. I do want to be “done” in May. I do want to move on to other things, and take a flatbed of gratitude for the time that being in school has given me to pursue all the other angles of healing that I’ve needed to pursue.

The reality is that if it does come down to it, I will take the thesis in progress. I will be disappointed, my family will be disappointed, but this really is the best I can do. And I have to allow myself that compassion. If I could have written a book of poetry, I would have. But that’s not what I’ve been doing. So be it. I am where I am now, and that’s looking at making something work. I've seen Tim Gunn say his catch phrase in both his dubious, one-eyebrow-raised tone, and in his hopeful get-er-done tone.

I don’t need hope here, I just need to do the work. Satisfy this requirement and get on with my life. This woman is not my enemy. Nor is she my judge and jury.

So, beginning Tuesday, I will not be a poet, I will be an editor. I can do that. 

Bless It or Block It

How many things can one person wholly commit to?

I went on a first date yesterday via a set-up. It was really fun. We got along great, and had a nice time. And so, now all the ‘What-if’s pop into my brain. Or, the questions, doubts. He’s not Jewish. Is that a Deal-breaker – I’ve never yet decided. He lives an hour&a half away. I don’t have a car – I’ve done that “medium-distance” relationship before. It looks like - or it did look like - attempting to shove all the things you would be able to do throughout a week into the weekend. Get all the fun and funny and adventure and rest and sexy time all in the 48 or so hours you have together. It was a lot of pressure to only be "happy", and sort of exhausting. Plus, at the time, I also had a car.

But, mostly what’s been on my mind since yesterday (besides the obvious knowledge that I actually don’t have to do anything right now, as I haven’t been asked out for a 2^nd date yet, so … slow the crazy train). … But, How many things can one person … or how many fledgling things can one person commit to?

By this, I am considering my new-found and very fledgling commitment to myself and my dreams. It’s ironic(?) that after going through the book Calling in The One, which helped to push me into the direction of performance, stage, music, following my dreams basically, that now, here I am faced with a potential opportunity for romance, and I’m hesitant. Is there enough of me to go around?

The next few weekends look like this: women’s new year’s retreat in Napa, audition, audition, audition. Yes. Three auditions in the two weekends following the retreat. And then there’s the rehearsal that will begin for The Vagina Monologues, which I’m in at school at the end of February.

So, … hence, “bless it or block it.” Were this gentleman Jewish, living in SF or Oakland, were I a private transportation owning female, would I, do I want a relationship right now? After doing all that “work” to make myself available for a relationship, have I simply cleared the space for a relationship with myself? Which, don’t get me wrong, is incredible. I’m entirely thrilled and proud of myself for heading, however haltingly, in the direction of something which incites joy in me just thinking about it. But, is there enough left over? Do I want there to be?

These are the questions that arise after one date! But, it’s not him, or the date – it’s me – what am I available for? Beginning to take the most delightful and frightening and nail biting steps in the direction of my heart’s desires for myself is a lot of work. It is a commitment. And when I began CITO, actually when I read the preview pages on Amazon before purchasing this dubiously titled book, I knew as soon as I read “If we’re finding an absence of a supportive, nurturing, committed relationship in our lives, we have to ask ourselves where are we not these things to ourselves?”, I knew then immediately where I wasn’t committed to myself, in this area of my “silly” nudges, dreams, aspirations, desires.

So, now here I am. Becoming more fully committed to myself and watching this tree bear the fruit. The fruit is joy, not the job, the part, the gig, it’s the joy of watching myself head there. It’s entirely new and rad and incredible to begin to remove the roadblocks I’ve arbitrarily placed in my own path. (I can’t be on stage because I’m too tall; I can’t play open mics because I can’t play guitar well enough.)

I’m willing to remain open at this moment to whatever happens next. Maybe we’ll be friends. Maybe he won’t even contact me again. Maybe he’ll ask me out and I’ll say yes. But, none of that is happening at this very moment. What is happening now is that I need to get ready for work at my SF temp gig, and I have some lovely Little Star Pizza leftover to take for lunch.

That, and it’s time to print some more headshots. ;)