Happy Day, beginner of things. Happy Day, continuer of things. Happy Day, ender of things. We are all sparks and conduits and keepers and quashers.
It is frightening to have a mission. To know what you are meant for, to know what you love in the world, to know that you bear gifts that exist in no other combination, in no other form and they will not exist again once you pass through this existence. If you don’t acknowledge this, there is no one else who possibly can. You have but one entrance and one exit.
It is also deeply comforting. If you let go of others’ plans for you, if you can embrace what it is you’ve been given, you can get enough answers to tide you over. To work with.
I know I am a writer. I know it with Elizabeth Gilbert-style assurance. In blood and bone and when I wake and when I sleep. I know it as Robert Louis Stevenson knows his little shadow and it has gone in and out with me every day of my life since I made the first discovery of language.
I also know I’m a cute thing. Maybe more like a stuffed animal cute, but cute, kawaii, Bee-ish. I’m endearing and good-hearted and supportive of others. I am empathic and attentive to the heartaches and discomforts of others. I am clever, sharp-witted, bent towards the light, but with that shadow stitched to my ankles. I am not so very different than any person who spends their time looking about.
I can also be the absolute opposite of all of those things and when I’m in stress, fear, anxiety, frustration, yearning, shame…I am rarely any of them.
It can feel embarrassing to nakedly say you’re lonely, you want help, you’re trying to get better, you’re afraid that you won’t, you’re struggling with money and weight and absence of love. But I think over time, not letting yourself look and see the wound of that is far more dangerous than any collective laughter or rejection or pity you might receive by allowing your mess to be lived on paper. To have it be spoken and plotted on charts and recited back at you.
Oh, there’s the girl who’s trying to lose weight. Okay. There she is. There’s the girl who is trying to get over her driving fears. Alright. I see her, blinking at us with her girl-like eyeballs. That’s the girl who wouldn’t like to be a one-girl show the rest of her life.
Yes. That’s her.
It feels rather nice to be wearing the waders, to have exercised and to be getting ready to sort out my assigned chapter, to know that my body feels different because I’ve driven it to be that way. That if I keep going, it will come with me. I’ve taken steps. The momentum is on my side.
No real pithy end line is coming to mind. No big tears today, I know I’m working on this for me.
Time to write!