One dumb thing I used to believe…

 Inspiration firecracker Danielle LaPorte has started a new meme-  The Burning Question Series - where she posts   her answer to a weekly question and then invites her readers to share their own responses.  This week’s question:

“What’s the one dumb thing you used to believe?”

 I used to believe that some day I would “ARRIVE.”

At one point I think I believed it was my personal mission to financially support every self-help author that my local bookstore stocked.  I was a self-help junkie; I would spend hours and days reading every book I could get my hands on to improve my self image, my self esteem, my creativity, my focus, my health, my eating, my… EVERYTHING.

I just knew if I read the right book, followed the right guru, and worked as hard as I could, one day I’d have solved all my problems and then “poof!” I’d arrive at some magical, mystical place where my whole life would be perfect.

24 hours/ 7 days a week of pure living nirvana.

I was certain I was just one book, one new positive habit, one less negative trait away from finding heaven on earth.

So I read.  Books on how to apply makeup, how to work with my natural hair, how to win friends and influence everybody.  How to speak to angels and recognize a liar.  How to save a marriage and avoid divorce.  How to positively parent…. How to think like DaVinci….

It was tiring.  (Heck, I’m tired just remembering all the reading and research and soul-searching I did!)

Don’t get me wrong.  I learned a LOT.  I learned about the plasticity of the brain.  I learned to meditate.  I learned to pray.  I learned just the right products to keep my hair healthy and growing strong.

But I never learned “THE SECRET.”

You know, the one that would make me perfect.  The one that would keep life from ever troubling me, the one that would keep me safe from heart-break and financial ruin.

No matter how much I chased the rabbit of perfection, I never arrived.

Until finally, I learned the most important thing:

You NEVER arrive.

“It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end.”

- Ursula K. Le Guin

 

What’s the one dumb thing you used to believe?  Click here to share your answer with the rest of the community.

The Fallow Season: Why I’ve Learned to Embrace the Blahs

A friend of mine emailed me that she was struggling to be productive this week.  ”I’m just feeling so blah,” she wrote. “I can’t seem to get anything accomplished.”

I understood the feeling completely because I regularly voice that same complaint to my husband around this time every year. I used to think it was seasonal depression–too many cold, grey days causing me to fall into a biologically crafted pit of creative lethargy.  To counteract this affect, I’d push myself to do something, determined to “mind over matter” myself past the block.  And when that didn’t work, I’d beat myself up about it with brutally negative self-talk.

And then I ran across an agriculture term:  fallow season.

In farm speak, fallow season is when you prepare a plot of land for planting, but rather than planting, you let it rest for a while.

I need you to fully understand this, okay?  This isn’t Farmer Joe finished the harvest, and then left the land to sit until next Spring.  No, this land has been fully prepared to be ready for the next planting:  Farmer Joe invested time and energy into weeding, tilling, fertilizing, and plowing, the same as if this land was being prepped to produce some useful crop.

But instead of planting, he just leaves it there.  It lies fertile and unproductive for a full season (most often two or three seasons).

The idea is that this resting season will make that plot of land even more productive when Farmer Joe does seed it.  More importantly, fallow season is necessary to keep the plot from decreasing in productivity; farmers who don’t allow plots to lie fallow often find the land eventually won’t produce any harvest at all.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

It’s easy, especially in  American culture where productivity is lauded, to believe that any moment we’re not creating is a wasted moment.  It’s easy to feel guilty if you’re not always doing, doing, doing.  So we push ourselves to write more, to join every creative challenge, to launch more blogs, to take more classes, to work on more projects… until…

Boom!  You hit the wall and find yourself blocked.

I’ve started recognizing I hit that wall like clock-work.    And every time, it takes a week or two of  being mired in the blahs and unable to accomplish anything for me to realize I need to stop and take a breather.  I need to be a reader rather than a writer… an appreciater rather than a creator.

I’m (ever-so-slowly it feels) learning I need to embrace fallow season, accepting that this quiet time is necessary to replenish my creativity.

And oddly enough, it always seems that once I’ve forced myself to embrace the blahs, I end up increasing the quality and quantity of my creative energy.

So what about you?  Do you see a similar cycle in your life?  If not, how do you manage the blahs? 

I am comfortable with grey (final)

I am no painter.

I do not
make magic with oils and brushes.
In the face of this blank canvas
I
feel

overwhelmed, over-awed,
afraid

to touch brush to colors
brilliant
luscious
glistening

they
call to me– It
is easier to ignore their voices

I am comfortable with grey

************

This final version of the poem and the photo were my submissions for the G+ group Friday Art Critique.  Submission deadline is Thursday, 9pm CST every week and I invite all of you to submit your work to this group too.  It’s one of my favorite creative activities to participate in each week and I think you’ll really enjoy it too!  :)

I am comfortable with grey

I am no painter.

I do not make magic with oils and brushes.

In the face of this blank canvas

I feel

overwhelmed, over-awed, afraid

to touch my brush to any of the luscious, glistening colors

although they call to me-

It

is easier to ignore their voices

I am comfortable with grey

*******************************

Perhaps the bravest thing I can do is say that I don’t feel so brave right now.  The next bravest thing is to be honest.  I keep saying that I want to change my life, go in the direction of my dreams, and yet in reality, I am very afraid to make a choice and to choose a direction.

When I strip down all the little voices and critiques away, this is what it boils down to:

I don’t trust myself.

One of those days…

It’s raining and I’m tired.

I haven’t had a vacation

in too long.  Longer than I can count.

And I feel bone weary.  Tired like

too many late nights and burning the candle at both ends

too many voices in my head

and I just need

for them to

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

for-a-minute-let-me

close my eyes.

shut down ¦ turn off  ¦ UNplug

REST

a personal manifesto against things that go bump in the night

“An individual dies … when, instead of taking risks and hurling himself toward being, he cowers within, and takes refuge there.”

- E.M. Cioran

Late one night, several years ago now, I entered my empty home and headed up to my empty room to lay down in my empty bed.  I’d just left my estranged husband at his place with our sleeping son in his bed.  We were five months into our seperation and I was slowly starting to believe that our marriage was really over.

This was my first night of complete “freedom.”  My two older children were with their father for the weekend and my youngest, for the first time ever, was actually spending the night with his dad.  It was just me and the cat.

And I was scared.  I refused to turn on the television because it felt silly to need the television to keep me company.  Instead I lay there in the dark, mourning my empty bed, my empty life… feeling the darkness press in on me , littered with the ghosts of broken dreams.

That’s when the noise started. A squeak on the stairs, a thump, and then silence. I’d almost convinced myself it was the cat when I heard it again. A steady foot-fall.  I was certain someone was in the house with me!

I locked my bedroom door.  I pushed a chair against it and then sat in the floor, listening intently.  The stairs squeaked again and I wondered what to do. I crawled into my closet, still listening, frantically trying to figure out what I could use to defend myself.  Should I go out in the hallway?  The iron was in my closet and I grabbed it, thinking I could maybe club an intruder with it.  But what if they killed me?  What would happen to my babies?  What if I did nothing and then they killed me any way?  What if my husband came by to drop off our son and found me, my throat slit, laying in the middle of the floor while our son stood there staring on in horror with him?

There was no one in the house that night. 

I would love to say I found that out after bursting from my bedroom brandishing my iron, ready to take on any intruder who dared to F- with me… but I didn’t.  Nope.  Instead, I inched myself slowly from my closet, across the floor to my bed where I felt around for my cell phone.  And then I called my estranged husband who told me to hang up and call 911.  And a kind 911 operator stayed on the line with me for 15 minutes while I waited, locked in the bathroom in my bedroom, gripping the phone in one hand and my iron in another, until the police came and told her there were no signs of forced entry and “could I come down and let them in?”

It took five minutes for the police to convince me it was safe to come out of my bathroom, out of my bedroom, and downstairs to let them in.  And even after I went down and they walked through the house…even after my estranged husband drove up, carrying our son, and confirmed (again) with the police that there were no signs anyone (besides me and the cat) were ever in the house that night… I still couldn’t quite believe it.

I felt certain I heard footsteps.  I was certain that I’d heard the intruder enter my room… heard the foot fall toward my bathroom and a pause while he stopped to light a cigeratte that I knew I smelled.  I would have sworn I even saw a tiny red ember of ash from the cigeratte hit the ground when I squinted under the door into the dark room beyond… and I described ALL of that to the 911 operator as I sat in the dark, waiting for him to open the door.

That’s how fear works in my life.  Small worries ballooning into menacing strangers that I KNOW with complete certainty are ready to rape me and split me open, leaving my entrails hanging out for my loved ones to stumble upon accidentally.

And because of that certainty, I would stay locked in the smallest, safest hiding space I could find until someone could coax me out.

At least, that’s how fear has worked in my life.

Not any more.

This is my manifesto against things that go bump in the night.

I’m tired of hiding.  I’m tired of living within walls, of waiting for someone to save me, of thinking that somehow I can figure out a way to live without risk.  I’m tired of playing small, of trying to shrink myself to fit into a closet in the false belief that maybe if I’m quiet enough, pain won’t hear me and will wander away without inflicting damage, or that I’ll figure out some way to sneak away without being seen.

It’s a big world.  I want to experience it.  Just this year I want to:

• publish short stories
• launch a podcast
• run a race
• join a book club
• go bowling
• celebrate my seventh wedding anniversary with the man I thought I was divorcing four years ago
• regularly climb a wall
• pursue a full-time freelance career

Mostly, I want to wear my heart on my sleeve and

“Be audaciously active in seeking out people who are passionate about things you care about.

Be yourself on a BIG scale.

It will make you happy & successful…”  – via Ishita but by someone I don’t know

I want to experience tremendous joy and I’ve begun to realize there’s no joy without risk, no winning without taking the chance of laying it all on the line.

“To render ourselves insensible to pain we must forfeit also the possibilities of happiness.”

- John Lubbock

So today I’m telling fear to suck it. 

I won’t lie.  I’m scared to death.  Scared of looking foolish, scared of failing, scared of finding out I don’t know enough, and even scared that my dreams aren’t big enough to be worth declaring out loud.  Scared that just the act of admitting I want something will be enough to jinx it and cause my world to come crashing down.

But I’m doing it anyway.

**********************

This is my post for Pour Your Heart Out with Shell over at Things I Can’t Say.  Everyone joining in is really sweet, so feel free to share what’s on your heart too. 

Should’ve Drunk the Kool-Aid

Breaking Wave credit: Malene Thyssen

At first it sounded like just another Jim-Jones-don’t-drink-the-kool-aid prophecy.

We’d just finished counting down to the end of the Mayan calendar, with everyone half afraid to leave home on December 21st in case some end of the world shit went down and well, when we woke up on December 22nd with everything and everyone just the same old-same old, we heaved a sigh of relief and went right on living.

So three months later, when some not-too-famous meteorologist in a podunk town in Texas excitedly “broke” the news that some other unknown astronomer in another little podunk town on the other side of the friggin’ world thought he saw a meteor or whatever coming at the earth… Shit, nobody believed that meant anything.

I mean, we just got past the end of the friggin’ Mayan calendar for crissakes!  If the Mayans were wrong– and every crackpot on this side of anywhere said they were one brilliant ancient race that was never wrong about nothing–then why were we gonna worry about something some science nerd in a country we never heard of said?

Maybe we should have listened.

I’m staring out the window of my third floor condo and watching water rush toward our building.  I don’t even know where the water came from. We’re close to the Chattahoochee river, but not that close, not so close that I should be looking at a friggin’ tidal wave of water covering buildings as it roars closer.

I’m not the only one watching. My downstairs neighbors stand on the stoop and it’s just like a damn feature film, where time seems to slow down and you notice every little detail. On some other day they’d look like they were poised for the perfect family picture, dad and mom standing together with a toddler tucked between, holding tightly on to both their hands. He’s got a pacifier in his mouth, blue and white.

No one says a word, but they don’t have to. The look on their face says it all.

We’re fucked, there’s no doubt about it.

And all I can think as I see this massive shit load of water crash over my neighbors and hit our building is “damn, wish I had some kool-aid.”

*********

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Tara challenged me with “No one says a word, but they don’t have to. The look on their face says it all” and I challenged I am Pisspot with “not everyone believes in omens and signs.”

Be sure to check out the other stories on the IndieInk site and, if you’re a writer, join up yourself!

Cracked

For the IndieInk Photo Battle (#IIPhoto) this week, Mary challenged me with “broken” and I challenged Ken with “unexpected.”

Be sure to check out the other entries and sign up yourself.

Ancient chinese secret

His face was why they dubbed the term “wizened”
and
I could barely touch
gnarled fingers

a dusty bottle
precariously held

they say money can’t buy love
but they–
they never felt
this weight, these folds, this
Mass

I can’t be
won’t be
held down anymore
gonna fly

$200 is small pittance
for
liquid love
trapped in a bottle

like swirling vapors
I will rise
when I shrink

these thighs

**********
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Airicka Phoenix challenged me with “liquid love, trapped in a bottle of swirling vapors” and I challenged Transplanted with “only in her dreams”.

I wanted to tell a story but in a short poetic form, since the phrase I was given seemed very poetic and my husband suggested a miracle weight loss cure… and here’s the result.  Would love to hear your thoughts on it… and be sure to join the challenge yourself, if you’re a writer (or want to be).  It’s a lot of fun!

When You’re Gone

...

It was two weeks to the day from the last time I saw him that Alex showed up. Maybe I should have been happy to see him after the last time, but all I could feel was fightin’ mad.

“You have a lot of nerve comin’ round here like this!” I yelled, holding myself so still when all I really wanted to do was knock that happy-go-lucky grin off his face.  “What do you have to smile about?”

The one thing about Alex that I’ve always hated is that you can’t push him into a fight.  When we were younger, I would poke him over and over and over again, just to see if I could make him lose his temper.  Truth be told, I just wanted to get him in trouble.

I was always in trouble ‘cause I couldn’t sit still.  So every now and then I wanted to see Alex get a spanking or at least get yelled at.  I figured if I poked him enough, sooner or later he’d haul back and smack me—that’s what I would have done if things were reversed.

But he never did.  At least, I don’t remember him ever hittin’ me.  He was always the best big brother in the world.

Right this minute though, I didn’t really wanna remember that.  I wanted to smack him, I wanted to hit him so much my hands were flexin’ like they were havin’ fits.

“Damn it Alex, I could really kick your ass right now!”

He just kept on smilin’ at me, looking off a little to the right as though my words didn’t mean a thing. I glanced over to see what he was lookin’ at and there was nothing there really. Just the sea, like always.  It was low tide and you could see sea weed clinging to the uncovered legs of the steel pier.

When we were kids, mom used to bring us here with a picnic lunch.  Alex didn’t mind running under the pier and lookin’ for seashells but I used to hate the sand.  Mom always said she’d spent half an hour getting us ready to go down the pier and then, it never failed we’d leave to go home 10 minutes later.

Alex leaned down and picked up a seashell.  It was a small grey and white conch shell, the kind those little hermit crabs like to live in.  “You should give this to Christian,” he said, his voice husky like he hadn’t used it in a while.  He held the shell out to me and it looked like a thimble in his big palm.

“Why don’t YOU give it Christian?  Oh yeah, I forgot… you can’t… you damn asshole…”

It was like my hand had a mind of it’s own, I swear.  I pulled back and let loose the fastest jab I’d ever made.

It should have connected hard with his jaw.  He saw it coming and he didn’t even brace for impact.  Didn’t flinch one goddam bit. My fist just seemed to glance right off him, like he wasn’t even there.  And I’ll be damned if he didn’t just keep smiling at me.

“Fuck you Alex!  You got some nerve, you just really got some nerve!  What am I supposed to say to Christian?  To mom?”  

“What am I supposed to do?” And that’s when it hit me so hard, I couldn’t stand, couldn’t do anything but drop to the sand, except it wasn’t sand anymore, but the hardwoods in my apartment.

And I was reliving that day again, holding the phone and hearing my mom’s weak, trembling voice say “baby, Alex is gone. He died in the hospital.”  

That’s when I wake up, just like every other night this last two weeks. And I could kick myself because I was with my brother and yelling at him, when all I really want to do is give him a big hug, the kind we stopped sharing when I hit puberty and chasing tail became the beginning and end of my world.

********

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Kevin Wilkes challenged me with “write a story with a conflict between two brothers” and I challenged The Drama Mama with “blame it on the Samba”.  Here’s my offering, squeaking in just before the deadline.