I lost my job.

So that was perfectly blunt and straight forward and designed to make you feel sorry for me. Ultimately, however, I am attempting to use this new and terrifying experience of uncertainty to catapult my creative side. Some days I have the perspective of "maybe this was just what I needed!" Other days I have he perspective of "this is so not what I needed right now!" Either way, I don't really have a choice but to move on.

Calvin Coolidge said, "Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan "press on" has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race."

To add to that, I was given a fantastic piece of advice the other day. I was told that it was a good idea to make myself do something creative every single day. Photography, writing, business planning, whatever it may be, to just force myself to do it. Not everything I would do would be brilliant, inspired, or even remotely usable... but it would be something. Something from which to build and good practice for my brain.

So that's where I am. At a loss and yet terribly devoted to making something out of this nothing. Let's see where this goes!

Sunlight streams into the room, warm in spite of the chill in the air. It heats the honey colored wood of the floor, illuminating the fact that the floor hasn't been swept in several weeks.

The light just touches the half full cup of coffee, it's steam curling into the air, that sits on the floor next to my bare feet.

Silence is the wind in the trees, a sound that reminds me of my grandmother. That esteemed woman would be ashamed of the dying houseplants beside the chair, their leaves drifting to the ground on the breeze of the ceiling fan.

I am finding comfort in this old chair, its fraying upholstery embracing me gently in the quiet of morning, in this messy room, its books out of order and leaning odd directions on the shelves, in this creaking house, its memories silently watching from the plaster walls.

Fighting this feeling that life is spiraling downward and will soon land of the floor like the leaves of my houseplants.

Dangling the Carrot

When it comes to relationships, I admit I'm bad. My deep-seated insecurities get the better of me. I read things that aren't there. I second guess myself and talk myself out of something that is probably beneficial. I jump through hoops that don't exist. I run an obstacle course that is only real in my mind.

And I end up emotionally exhausted.

It makes me wonder if anyone else does the same thing. And maybe that's why we all seem to be so bad at communicating. We dance this dance of fear of the unknown when it would just be easier to ask, to be honest, and to get it all out in the open.

But maybe.... that takes some of the fun out of it.

Sushi

Sometimes reality is so raw, so unyielding, so un-sugar-coat-able that I’m afraid to write about it. To lay everything out there, naked in the hot sunlight, is frightening. Reality will get a sunburn, blister, and peel, leaving me even more tender and sensitive.

Looking at me you would think I was successful, and you would be right! Why is it that in the midst of all this success, all this positive change, all these accolades of achievement, I am suddenly so very lost?

I don’t feel like I’ve earned any of this. Yes, I’ve worked hard, sacrificed my time and energy, pinched pennies, saved for years, pulled myself up by my proverbial boot straps. I’ve taken these lemons and I’ve made lemon cake! But I’ve also hurt people along the way. I’ve torn my dignity to shreds, abandoned faith and hope, stepped on fingers and toes, refused to speak when my words could have mended so many broken relationships. Because I was afraid. So very afraid. The fear is still there… my ever-present friend, but I have a choice. My choice is to move on anyway, to lift my head and speak the truth in love. Because perfect love casts out fear.

Life is about relationships, and the fact is, people will hurt me, abandon me, lie to me, cheat on me, ignore me, hate me, talk about me behind my back, seek revenge, refuse to forgive me, mock me, hurt my feelings... Because people are people.

I have the opportunity every day to observe people who think no one can see them. People catch my eye through my three giant glass windows and one heavy glass door. I watch people who laugh at each other, people who fight with each other, people who are alone, people who spoil their children, people who shout at their children, people without children, people who are tired, people who work hard, people who are lazy, people who don’t care what they look like, people who care a little too much.

All of these people have one thing in common… they are people. They feel just like I do. They smile and laugh. They get sad and cry. They all have a story, a story they may want to tell the world, or a story they would prefer to hide so deeply inside that not even they have to admit that it exists.

I watch these people as a quiet, unknown observer, and they teach me something, a lesson written in posture, expression and the strain of skin over white knuckles against the steering wheel…

...we are all the same.

So this is my voice. I’ve screamed at God for so long that my voice is raw and unlovely, but it is mine. I am not fearless, and I know so many people who are far better equipped at word crafting. All I can possibly hope for is to be real.

Nursery Rhymes and Other Morbid Subjects

My youngest son loves to sing. He will sing almost anything, from commercial jingles to angsty Linkin Park. Today he stood in front of the refrigerator, rearranging the magnets, singing at the top of his lungs...

Five little monkeys swinging on a tree
Hey, Mr. Crocodile, can't catch me!
Along came Mr. Crocodile, quiet as can be
And snatched that monkey right out of the tree.

Four little monkeys swinging on a tree....

And so the song went on. Until there were no monkeys left to taunt the poor crocodile.

Is this how we teach our children to cope with life? We stand with our friends and stare danger in the face, taunting it until one of us falls victim to a classic blunder ("never start a land war in Asia"). Instead of learning from that mistake, we continue to plow ahead, until the crocodile consumes us all and there is no one left to wonder why swinging from the tree seemed like such a good idea to begin with.

Nursery rhymes are like this. They prey on death, disease, and phobias. Why was Jack jumping over the candle stick? Why did the spider sit down beside Little Miss Muffet? Does anyone feel sorry for the four and twenty blackbirds that got baked in a pie? And what is up with Humpty Dumpty?! Who sits on a wall? Especially someone who is friends with the king's horses and the king's men.

I could go on and on. From Little Red Riding Hood and her ill-advised, lonely walk in the woods to The Three Little Pigs and their architectural genius, and songs we sing on the playground about London's bridges falling and ring around the rosie, preying on literal historical fact in a sing-song, childlike manner. Death. Disease. Plague. Disaster. Fear. Pain. We teach our children these things are normal, these things are commonplace, these things are simply to be observed or ignored.

Never do the songs and stories tell us how to overcome these things.

So we swing from the trees. A bunch of monkeys with no purpose other than to follow in the footsteps of those who went before. Until the crocodile snatches us away and we no longer have to deal with life.

Days like today, when the sky is crying but the lights inside the coffee house make it seem warm and cozy inside, make me wish I was better at saying what I was thinking. I see so much beauty in a day like today. I see so much joy in the contrast between the dreary outdoors and cheery indoors. The idea of pajamas and hot coffee and curling up with a book is so tempting.

But I know I would get bored. So I thrill seek even on days like today.

I think I'll get another piercing.

Time Out from Partying

What is it about our culture that says we don't have the time to be ill? And what is it about our culture that says if we complain about illness we are whining and really should get over ourselves? And what is it about our culture that says we have to have a really bad illness before we have the right to act like we're dying?

Okay... so maybe acting like I'm dying is a little extreme. However, I have not felt well for the past week and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Instead of renting space this amazing and disgusting amount of phlegm is taking up permanent residence and throwing a house warming party. It's moved from my sinus cavity to my lungs, and I have taken great joy in complaining about it to everyone I see.

That's right. I'm not sucking it up. I'm reveling in complaining about my illness. In fact, I feel entitled to a certain amount of sympathy from everyone around me. Afterall, I sympathize with all sorts of people when they aren't feeling well. Even when whatever is wrong with them is their own fault.

Example: My brother broke his foot while kicking puzzle mats. Really? Puzzle mats? They're soft and cushy and made for children! Of all the things he's kicked (heads, boards, concrete blocks, etc.) he breaks his foot on puzzle blocks. Did I laugh? Naturally. Did I mock? Of course. Did I sympathize? You better believe it. 'Cause in the end, he was in pain. He needed someone to say, "Dude, that sucks! I'm so sorry. Hope it feels better soon."

I expect sympathy. I really do. And I feel as though the rhinoceros on my chest has earned the respect of everyone around me and should be acknowledged.

Now stop running away when I cough.