In Other Words

Archive for the ‘inspiration’ Category

You know that feeling you get when you’re angry with your life and the world? The one that makes you sick of everything, that makes you feel like simultaneously roaring with your entire being and crying with what little is left of your sapped energy?

You know that feeling, the one that makes you want to fiercely, viciously rip the skin suit from your body, like unzipping a snowsuit, and step out of it, makes you want to rent the fabric of this world and leap into another, desperate to escape the endless cycle, anxious for something different?

At the same time you feel contradictorily spent, as though all the energy you have would be to simply pop the bubble that is your little life, the one that sometimes joins and sticks to other bubbles but ultimately feels as though it’s your very own and that either you don’t have the power to control its path, or you do and you’re not doing a very good job of it.

You know that feeling? That one that makes you want to flip the finger to the sickeningly repetitive upbeat self-help encouragement? The one that tells you you can change your life if only you forget yourself and change your thinking? The kind that tells you “all you have to do is…”? The kind that says “you can do it too if only…”? The kind that seems to say it’s all your fault, this life, it’s all you, and if it sucks, you have only yourself to blame? The kind that tells you no matter how earnest, how innocently expectant, how visualizing, optimistic, and positive you are, if there’s still no change, you must not want it badly enough, or else there is something in your subconscious that is screwing with you?

You know that feeling you get when you hear all that shit? That’s how I feel today. I know, I know, I know, I say. I know what I’m supposed to do. But. And it’s that but that makes me want to erase this post. That but can be used against me to explain my cyclical life. I know. But I won’t erase this post, because it’s okay to have a bad day.

And then suddenly I think, I was so much better off when I didn’t know any of this crap. I’m supposed to feel empowered. But now all I feel is anxious, guilty, stressed, responsible, anguished, frustrated, and ultimately angry. Why did things have to get so complicated? Now everything bad is all my fault.

Self-help sucks. It sucks because it’s hard, because I can’t do it, and because now I feel like a failure and hyperaware of everything I do and think. It sucks because I like to be good at everything and I’m not good at any of it. It sucks because I feel like it’s my fault that we’re in our situation, because I can’t think right. It sucks because ironically it makes me feel more a victim than I ever have before, makes me feel as though everything is unfair. How come some people can just do it and others struggle at it forever? And it sucks because I can’t find God in the quagmire of my “self-help journey.” But I also can’t find him when I’m believing he’s the one in charge and not me. Where the hell is the in between?

Self-help sucks because it’s telling me that I’m having all these never-ending same issues because part of me is perpetuating them, for all I think of what I want instead. But I’m tired of this cliché crap! And I am tired of feeling hopeful only to have hopes dashed, optimistic only to see the cynical side of things, expectant only to be disappointed. I’m tired of happily visualizing what I want but then seeing nothing change. I’m tired of trying to relinquish control or, contrarily, trying to take it. I.am.tired.of.the.same.old.shit. I am having panic attacks about it, about being trapped and powerless.

I don’t know how to be anything other than me the way I am. I’m the kind of person who sees what she wants and then thinks she has to do something to get it. I have to take control. But it doesn’t often work, and apparently this is because most of the struggle is in the mind. In other words, I can do all I want but if my mind isn’t a 100% on board (even if I feel it is, it probably isn’t. There’s some furtive, elusive thought in there telling me something negative), things aren’t going to work out. At least, this is what self-help tells me.

If it’s stubborness that’s my issue, I don’t know how to give it up. If it’s years of bad influence, I don’t know how to unlearn it. If it’s wrong thinking, I don’t know how to think any other way. I thought I was an intelligent kid, but this kind of enlightenment makes me immature, whiny, and frustrated, not more adept at life. Whatever the problem is, self-help teaches me that nothing will change unless I fix it: unless I think a certain way and don’t give up.

I know I’m whining. I know I’m being negative. I know this is not helping me. Honestly, I don’t want to be stuck. I want quite the opposite, and always have. I’m just so tired of trying to get things right and failing, of expecting and being hopeful only to be disappointed.

Working on Bella’s Bookshelves has made me read more about the publishing world in general. All I read these days are the incredibly copious obits of indie bookshops and the constant proclamations of how ereaders and ebooks are revolutionizing our reading habits and bookselling trends. One of the pros of ereaders, apparently, is that they are nice and light and thin, whereas books are cumbersome and too heavy to take for a ride on the subway.

And then I read about the supposed “death of blogging”; with the viral popularity of twitter and texting, what do we need blog posts for? Tweeting is faster, thus saving you more time to do…whatever.

In all this I see a certain kind of laziness. As I commented on Quill & Quire recently, books are not inconvenient and too heavy. We are the problem, not the books. If we find them too burdensome, it’s not that which is the issue but rather our fitness. I mean, really, we lug around bags of crap all the time and now we’re going to whine that a novel is too weighty? The novels these days aren’t even that long, for several reasons.

And are we becoming so lazy that it’s not even worth our time to thoughtfully produce meaningful content longer than several lines? Why are we truncating everything, from posts to sentences to individual words themselves? Why are we incapable of concentrating on longer paragraphs or thicker books? Why are we living such abbreviated lives? What is this general trend that is making us, especially the younger generations, increasingly impatient and lazy? It seems to me the only thing we’re not downsizing in some way in the name of “efficiency” and convenience is our diets.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t simplify things. I’m all about simplifying, in fact. And it is conceivable that perhaps the above is not what is happening at all and this is just my perception. The thing is, I’m finding myself inexplicably affected. I am definitely becoming increasingly lazy, and I find it insufferable when I observe it. I’ve always thought of myself as a doer, a go-getter, a motivated or inspired person who gets whatever needs to be done, done, a person who takes the time to be creative and who, while doing things in the easiest but most effective way possible, still doesn’t take shortcuts.

Truly, that’s me—or, rather, that was me. But it’s exactly the opposite of how I am now. I live my life in contradiction: I do almost everything (but mostly stupid stuff) as though it’s my last day on earth and the hours are short, and yet I daily put off things as though I have all the time in the world, things that are important, like exercising, cooking dinner, playing with the dog, cleaning, thinking things through, reading important literature, planning Biblio, getting to bed on time, taking vitamins, filling my water bottle, proofing my posts before I publish them, spending time with my friends, working on editing jobs. It’s become worse in the last couple of years. As the saying goes, laziness pays off now: I’ve become so lazy that I pretty much do whatever I want and grumble about and resent the stuff I must do, like get up and leave for work every morning.

If I let this get out of hand, I will soon find myself likely quite unhealthy, the way things are going. Although I’m certain I’ll never whine that the novel I’m reading is too heavy to carry around (because I love books as much as I love the content in them), I’m really starting to worry.

Thus, I looked up several ways to drag myself out of this mortifying laziness rut. The problem is, the Just Do It approach, or the “Do what I need to so I can do what I want to” approach, doesn’t work for me. I can be the opposite of lazy, too, in some things, and because I’m a person of extremes, I can tend to not allow myself to relax until everything is done. An unbalance results, leaving me possessive of every second of free time, reluctant to leave the house, and wholly overwhelmed and distracted. Hence the laziness to counter that. The more stressed I become, the more work I must do, the more I balk and often, worse, give up altogether (if it’s not something to do with work—though I’m writing this post now instead of editing an article).

So I’m no closer, it seems, to solving this conundrum, this growing personality flaw that was once happily uncharacteristic of me. But if I don’t force myself to act now, it might be that something catastrophic will. And by then, it’s often almost too late. The time I so wish for in which to do all I need and want feels as though it’s running out.

I sip my tea the way you’re supposed to when tasting it (did you know you’re supposed to slurp?), but only because I’m trying to drown out the song on the radio. I am sitting conspicuously at my desk at the clinic, grossly aware of the diminutive elderly patient waiting across from me and the embarrassingly inappropriate and bitchy demands of “Give it to me right” coming through the radio here in the common room. This is when I realize that drinking tea at work is not at all the same as drinking it at home.

Part of it is the ugly forest green mug I’m using, which I associate with seriously ill people getting IVs. I usually serve them water or tea in these mugs; the room often smells off and their disease stares me down like a butch. And I’m very particular about what I drink tea in—at home I mostly use either bone china or pottery. It depends on the kind of tea. I really have to remember to bring in my own mug, but a brand-new one altogether. One I buy especially for here. I don’t like to mix work and home in any way.

That said, it’s really mainly my agitated state of mind that’s affecting my tea drinking here. Never mind the ugly mug, or the completely different atmosphere from home: those are a given. If I was sipping loose leaf from the queen’s tea service here things wouldn’t be the same, even though I sometimes sneakily change the music from rauchy pop to zen and, when no one’s in, burn a little incense to clear the air.

No, the lack of proper taste, materials, and atmosphere isn’t the only thing causing my discontent during tea time today. I’m bone tired, for one, and I can’t seem to shake that. It’s a no-brainer, of course: I’m working way too much (editing has been fantastic lately) and going to bed at least two hours after I feel I need to.

And all this is making me once again consider what I’m doing with my life. (Are you tired of me doing that yet?) I mean, now we’re in 2010 and, damn it all, it feels the same!!

WHAT DO I WANT? I wish to God I had a clearly defined goal, something I could unreservedly commit to. This is why I never make resolutions. I can’t even decide what to resolve! The only thing that makes me feel any sort of right is opening up Biblio, preferably in Yorkshire but anywhere nice, I guess. Now there’s a place I could drink tea and enjoy it! As time goes by without an inkling of my ability to do that, I become aware of feeling otherwise goalless, which is somewhat akin to feeling homeless—or rootless, rather.

It’s not that I lack ambition but more so that I can’t seem to find anything that really, truly interests me, at least to do. I do enjoy editing and I’m hearing more and more that I’m quite good at it, which is always nice. And I would rather work from home or have my own successful business, so I guess what I really want, if I can’t have Biblio, is to be able to get my editing flowing so well I don’t need a second job.

In that case, then, I need EditQuest to be redone (siriusgraphix will be doing it!) and given its own site again (though it has received more traffic from here than where it was before), and I need to contact more people regarding subcontracting, and dedicate more time to finding more clients. I need to sit down and decide just what I want to put my energy toward and how I am going to do that.

By the time I get ready for England this year, I need to be sitting full time in my proper place for tea.

Listen:

Across the water, in the distant dark punctuated by cricket chirps and softly babbling water, a faint chorus of boisterous voices sings Happy Birthday.

Their cheers echo at 11:18 pm. Wood smoke in the cool air and all you see is sky.

At the desk that’s too high for you, in a wobbly dining table chair, you pick at your nails, massage your tight neck, and listen to the pop songs on the radio in the reception room, wondering at and irritated by the constant repetition of uninspired stanzas. You pokes holes in your eraser with your sharpened pencil and glance at the clock for the fifth time in two minutes and stave off tears of boredom and frustration. For someone so passionate and with such high hopes, for someone with so much potential, why have your choices led you to the exact opposite? When will you come across and recognize and not be afraid of and commit to the choice that turns your life around? When will you do something for you?

The phone rings and yet again you answer as though you have the best job in the world.

She is his first girlfriend. In the morning, he showers longer than he used to, plans his clothes with better care, turning up the collars of his golf shirt, spritzing on cologne. He remembers to brush his teeth now after breakfast.

At school he holds the door, her books, her lunch, her hand. He sits beside her in the caf, arm casually around her shoulder, just so, conscious of how he looks, how she looks, breasts pushing against her tight tee-shirt, how she smells like strawberry lip gloss and cotton candy perfume—

In the dark, all pretence gone, he relaxes, fumbles, kisses her shyly, says in her ear what he thinks she’d like to hear. He is sweet, and she remembers this.

I’ve been having a strange week. Last Friday I had the day off, which I really did mean to spend proofreading since I have a nice big job due on the 21st, but which I instead spent in several chairs for several hours at a hair salon. Since November, I’ve changed my hairstyle four times and the colour twice.  This time, I went Annie Lennox short and bleached it platinum. Totally different from the copper bob I sported before that, the shoulder-length dirty blond hair before that, and the really long ponytail before that.

Never in my life have I experienced such weirdness as a result. I still get a surprise when I catch myself in the mirror but I do recognize me and otherwise I forget I’ve done anything to my hair until I see someone react in surprise.

What’s strange is that some people don’t recognize me at all. Patients at the clinic have no idea who I am and treat me differently, or are unsure, tentatively asking me if I’m the same girl they saw last week. Library staff I worked with for two years didn’t know who I was today. Even a good friend hadn’t a clue that my profile picture on Facebook was of me.

It’s led me to wonder: How much of our identity is tied up in our physical appearance? How much do I let out; how much is true? Not too long ago, one friend said she didn’t know the half of me, even though we’ve been friends for almost ten years. How do people see me as opposed to how I see myself?

This got me thinking about how different I have felt lately in general, mainly since I started working outside our home. That in turn led me into my archives of a year ago, when I was editing full-time, to read completely different writing than what I’ve been (hardly) producing of late. My past writing is much better than the crap I’ve been putting out recently. It’s written with more thought, more focus, more care. When I had more time to observe and philosophize and dream and joke and be me.

I suddenly look up to find the moon and know that’s me: I’m a moon lover; it seems to call to me. I see my books, my half-finished mugs of tea, my scattered proofed pages, my blanket to keep me cozy. All me. But I read my current writing, I take stock of the errors I’ve carelessly and even consciously brushed off, I note the lack of inspiration, the preoccupation, the utter lack of focus, the absorption in work matters, the vacuous pauses as I try to finish typing a sentence. Those things don’t feel like me. They bother me. They feel as though I’ve left myself somewhere. Not in the hunks of naturally dirty blond hair I left behind on the floor of the salon a while ago, but rather in squirrelling away myself and my own interests deep down while I go through the routine of struggling every morning to get up, of making my way to work and being the amiable, energetic receptionist everyone loves all day; while I have a job and don’t spend time with my husband and my dog; while I normally don’t have or make time to emote and interact with friends and drink London Fog tea at cool places called The Tenth Ox.

Today, however, I did make time for a dear friend, a kindred spirit I haven’t seen in ages. We talked for hours, and in the course of this she said very lovely things about me. Most significantly, my friend said she saw something in me right away when we met this afternoon: a huge energy, a vibrancy. That I’m meant to do something big, that the world needs me. That I have everything I need and all that has to happen is I allow it out. That I recognize it, believe in it, share it. She articulated it much better than I (which frustrates me as I try to tell this story), but she voiced everything that is the opposite of how I traditionally see myself. To hear it made me feel excited and freaked out and on the verge of empowerment that I could allow if I wasn’t so strangely afraid. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing me as someone else sees me.

She totally addressed, without knowing it, this constant urge I’ve had to be significant, to do something amazing, to be someone living fully, doing extraordinary things, to have a large and positive impact. I’ve always agonized over this (but what should I do and what if people think I suck and if I think I suck and can’t do it and am afraid?), but out of nowhere she said, “All you have to do is make yourself available. You said you never do this anymore, you never get out, you never hang out with friends, etc. So do it. You have something big. Just get out and share it. The opportunities will make themselves known.”

Okay, something like that, only way better. She said perfect things. I wish I had taken notes or had a tape recorder. I swear it was sort of like God sitting there and telling me something really relevant and significant and it made me feel as though I’ve been selfish keeping myself to myself. To top it off there was a pack of fairy cards we could play with. Each of us drew one and mine was called Inner Power, all about everything we’d just been talking about, and so eerily worded it was as though it had been listening in on the conversation and was directly answering things I’d expressed. Very freaky, but the message was clear: I have what it takes, and I can do great things.

I feel as though first I have to unshackle myself from many things, but then, why waste time? Perhaps the only thing I need to do to move forward is start saying YES.

Meditation, the kind where you just sit or lie still and breathe deeply and try to empty your mind or focus on one thing for a while, is really hard for me. I can’t do it. It seems an invitation for my mind to start leaping everywhere as if in defiance, and then I just give up. But I feel I need the benefits of meditation, among other things.

I’ve been taking stock of what’s going on with me lately. I’ve been very down, lacking energy and motivation and inclination to do anything but watch a movie or documentary or look at magazines. I’ve felt particularly restless, disgruntled, unhappy with myself, fickle, unable to follow through on any bit of excitement I might have about something. It’s too fleeting, that excitement, even when it’s over something I really would like to do, like write. I’ve felt unhealthy, completely unfocused (where the meditation comes in, as well as to deal with stress), and I haven’t been sleeping well. (I noticed all this especially since I started working outside my home.)

There are many things that could be causing these issues. The thing is, if you think of yourself holistically, you can become overwhelmed and thus frustrated and unable to decide where to start addressing the problems. This is what happens to me: as usual, I get so overwhelmed I simply quit thinking about it and escape. I instantly try to distract myself with a magazine or movie.

You know when you start to really contemplate the universe and that we’re actually on this little revolving ball in the giant black sky, orbiting around the sun with a bunch of other planets in a galaxy among millions of other galaxies and that totally freaks you out and you don’t want to think about it anymore? It’s like that. You distract yourself with something else immediately, before you really put our wee orb, and our wee-er selves, in perspective and scare the shit out of yourself.

This constant avoidance, which turns into a habit, becomes a sort of depression, I think. I’ve lost all confidence in my ability to change, and now I don’t even bother to try because it’s too hard, and statistically my odds seem to really suck. But I’m tired of being this way. More tired than usual, I mean. So while wondering how I could reap meditation benefits without doing typical meditation, I thought of the times I have actually been able to let my mind go and just pay attention to my breathing without trying. On my daily brisk walks with Lucy when I was working from home, I often totally spaced out. I let my body take over and found myself repeating some random sentence, over and over, in time with the rhythm of my breathing and stride.

I haven’t been exercising much at all since I started working at the clinic and, of course, knowing the benefits of exercise, this could be the major cause of many of the issues I’ve been having. So I’m thinking about taking up running. I haven’t run in a few years, even though it really appeals to me more than anything else (except maybe really challenging hikes or walks). I ran all through elementary and high school, and in university and afterward I used to love running on the treadmill at the gym. I could go forever (it’s easier than running outside of course), not thinking about a thing, just letting the rhythm of my stride and breathing take over. Running outside, cross-country, is wonderful, but I can’t really do that here. (I imagine doing that in England, over hill and dale, and then stopping for tea and a scone afterward on the way home….)

Over the last few months, I’ve really been feeling the need to physically exert myself, even to the maximum, and I find myself imagining me running, smoothly, confidently, endlessly. I hear my steady breathing, I feel the muscles work strongly in my legs, I feel my feet land solidly step after step. I never feel tired or jiggly or heavy or unbalanced or crampy in my daydreams. I run like a pro. I run and run and run and I feel fantastic.

I’m not really interested in having a best time or winning marathons or anything like that. I’m more interested in finding something I enjoy and sticking with it, in finding “my thing,” since my history of follow-through is sketchy at best and right now I don’t have anything positive I consider characteristic of me. I’m interested in freeing my mind, helping my body, and gaining self-confidence. I’m interested in balance, if it’s even really achievable, and I imagine myself being much better able to handle stress.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I look at pictures of runners, the more my friends encourage me to do it, the closer I’m getting to committing. I might have found a use for my birthday money after all: new trainers and some running clothes to meditate in.

Ommm…

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows achievement and who at the worst if he fails at least fails while daring greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

- Theodore Roosevelt. From a speech given in Paris at the Sorbonne in 1910

I was never brought up to believe in past lives. But from the very beginning, I’ve been a challenger, a questioner, a passionately expressive and explosive person with strongly held convictions; I grew up shouting. I never aspired to be like Gandhi (though I greatly admire who he was).

I’m quieter now (though not always) but every time I read a quotation like this one above, every time I watch a king or general’s speech before battle, every time I watch a competition of physical feat or hear a lively debate (excluding the often moronic modern-day political ones), my heart is awakened — my soul seems to take a deep breath of remembrance.

I think it would be wonderful to know that I was once someone with great purpose who could explain my seemingly out-of-place ferocity. And then, if only I could become that person again!

I sit before the living room picture window, outside which falls Christmas snow; heavy, completely vertical lines of large clumped flakes fall fastthicksilent, and I’m suddenly reminded of peacefully watching the same thing year after year in different places, at different times — last year, the year before, when I was 20, when I was 16, when I was 12, when I was 5.

Two thoughts: Wow (because it is so thick that it almost obscures the houses across the street, and for the second time this week I have the day off because of it) — and hmmm, all those years behind me.

It’s the thought of all those years I remember that holds me. I’m reminded of the strangely unbidden question that hit me last night as I lay my head on my pillow: Am I a good person? And then: Am I honourable? Am I proud of my life? Will people speak of me kindly when I am gone?

I think I actually fell asleep before I’d answered myself, or maybe I fell asleep avoiding the question, but I remember it again this morning and allow it to fill my head. Maybe it’s because I’ll be 35 shortly, and I’m preparing.

I studied history in university, along with English, and my interests were particularly classical and medieval times. What I love about those periods is how much more passion there seemed to be, how much more important it seemed for people to live full, active lives, mainly because of a high awareness of mortality. Classical history is rife with heroes and heroines and myths and legends, people for whom how they lived their lives was paramount because of how they wished to be remembered. Honour, strength of character and body, courage, valour, fierce love, and utter belief in whatever cause was important at the time — in other words, passion — all these things litter classical history so that even now names from many years BC are yet familiar to us.

I’m not saying everyone died with honour back then or that everyone did good things. But my focus is on them because it makes me think of how differently many of us live out our lives now. There is less a sense of urgency, as though we take life for granted. We lack passion and purpose, we often wonder where the years have gone because we’ve lived them unconsciously. We are not any longer consumed with the idea of leaving a spectacular legacy or having our name live on.

And why not? I may not be the job I do, but as a human being, I am a culmination of my actions, my words, and my beliefs. Am I living the kind of life my family and friends will admire? Am I doing anything I will be remembered for, and in a positive light? Where can I place my honour, my valour, my courage, my passion? What do I believe in, and when will I find it worth fighting for, if indeed I wish to avoid a complacent and dull life?

Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me in your memory

Remember, when your dreams have ended
Time can be transcended
Just remember me

I am the one star that keeps burning, so brightly,
It is the last light, to fade into the rising sun

I’m with you
Whenever you tell my story
For I am all I’ve done

Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me in your memory
Remember me

I am the one voice in the cold wind that whispers
And if you listen, you’ll hear me call across the sky

As long as I still can reach out and touch you
Then I will never die

Remember, I’ll never leave you
If you will only
Remember me

Remember me…

Remember, I will still be here
As long as you hold me
In your memory

Remember, when your dreams have ended
Time can be transcended
I live forever
Remember me

Remember me
Remember… me…

– Cynthia Weil, songwriter