Today, as I continue my wrestling match with the question: How do I stay grounded while also expanding into the fullness of who I am; I am noticing some, you know, issues.
There is the tendency to get so excited as things are about to "become" or to begin, that I leap before looking - resulting in situations that frighten or, more often, embarrass, me.
This happens in every area of my life but it happens most often in those places where I am not quite sure I measure up.
So, work - where I do things like...
. . . mailing off a proposal to the president of a major publishing house (after he has been kind enough to extend me that incredible privilege) without completely checking the manuscript
. . . writing and releasing a major piece of work without getting it approved first
. . . announcing, "Oh, whoopee. My book will be available on January 1st when I am still not completely sure whether this chapter comes before or after that one."
There is the tendency, when this happens, to roll up into a tight, tiny ball of anxiety and shame... for a long, long time. And to avoid anyone or anything--including the project itself--that might remind me what a fool I have been and make me... you know, feel bad.
There is the tendency, when THAT happens, to sink into spasms of self-recrimination and a great deal of flailing about and breaking into perfectly decent, often quite lovely paragraphs and ripping them to shreds. Which makes me feel bad.
And the tendency, when THAT happens to cry.
I'm working on this. Working less on keeping myself from leaping - more on letting it be okay if I make a mistake. Letting it be okay if I get excited about something. Letting it be okay to not get the thing I want but to ask for it anyway. Tiny goals on a great big field. Huge payoff.
And so, without any further ado, I am going to leap right before your eyes. I am going to publish this blog post without being absolutely certain that it's perfect... willing to come back and fix it later, if need be.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The hair debate
Ugh.
If I spend one more minute obsessing about my hair....
Which do you like better? The short....
Or the long?
Be honest. I won't mind. No, really. Just tell me.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Gratitude, forgetting, gratitude, forgetting...
A few weeks ago, as I was writing--burning off the caffeine of my second cup of tea--Ed slid into the seat across from me. "I have a poem for you to read," he said, pulling a sheet of paper from somewhere inside of his powder blue windbreaker.
I've been talking with Ed, an 80-something regular at the cafe where I write, for three years. We chat about the weather, his declining health, my smile, which he always teases out of me. In all this time, he's never shared anything personal, never seated himself at my table.
“A poem?” I blinked up from the silty bottom of myself where I'd been trawling, practicing holding my breath forever. I struggled up to meet Ed, lungs filled with magic air.
Ed, quite hard of hearing, reads my lips, nods. “My wife wrote it,” he says, unfolding the paper like a treasure map, pressing his fingers along the folds. “I worked at the National Broadcast Company-in supplies. I don’t know why she was interested in me. I was so shy. She was shy too I guess. She was from the music department.”
"We were married at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York," he says. "I lived in Brooklyn. She was from New Jersey. We thought we'd make the wedding in the middle, even though she wasn’t Catholic.”
He tells me that, on the morning of the wedding, a friend gave him a ride; picked him up early; drove all the way into town before, "at the Hotel Pennsylvania,” he says. “We realized I’d brought the wrong bag. I didn’t have my wedding suit.”
He dispatched another friend to run back to Brooklyn for the suit. Ed went inside the church to explain. “I was half an hour late to my own wedding,” he tells me, laughing. “The priest was impatient. ‘Eddie,’ he told me. " I’ve another wedding right behind you. Lace up those shoes!’”
After the wedding, Ed waited outside the church, greeting guests. “My wife was inside looking for me. I made a lot of mistakes.”
“What was her name?”
“Muriel,” he says. “She died... 57…”
“In 1957?” I’m trying to do the math. She’d have been so young. Did they have any children?
“What’s that?” he asks, leaning forward.
“Was she 57 when she passed, or was it 1957?”
He shakes his head. "She was 57. The cancer just swept her away.” He sighs.
The poem, "Ode to Eddie," calls him a flirtatious hunk with dazzling blue eyes. All the girls wonder why he hasn’t been plucked, it reads. Any of us would gladly try our luck.
In Ed's beautiful eyes, there has always been this twinkle. I can just imagine him, years ago. He's still a charmer. “You must have been something,” I say.
“What’s that?” he leans closer. I amplify, speaking slowly. He grins. “I was very shy.”
He takes the poem from me, refolds it into a precious packet which he tucks back into a pocket. “I never knew who wrote it,” he says. “She didn't tell me until we we'd been dating a while."
He pulls himself to his feet with his walker. “I thank you for the gift of your time,” he says. My response is drowned by the sound of the espresso machine.
Today, I showed this post to Ed and he read it with tears in his eyes - I watched him read, my own eyes brimming. He corrected a few errors - "I knew she wrote the poem before we were married," he said; and he told me the year Muriel had died, 1981. He gave me permission to run the story here, adding, "I don't know why you'd want to tell my little story..."
I tried to explain why his story had touched me, why I thought it might touch my readers. But he couldn't hear me. So I hugged him. And for both of us, that was gratitude enough.
-------
Note: The title of this little slice of life comes from David Gonzales, a brilliant storyteller and performer, who blesses my life with his friendship.
I've been talking with Ed, an 80-something regular at the cafe where I write, for three years. We chat about the weather, his declining health, my smile, which he always teases out of me. In all this time, he's never shared anything personal, never seated himself at my table.
“A poem?” I blinked up from the silty bottom of myself where I'd been trawling, practicing holding my breath forever. I struggled up to meet Ed, lungs filled with magic air.
Ed, quite hard of hearing, reads my lips, nods. “My wife wrote it,” he says, unfolding the paper like a treasure map, pressing his fingers along the folds. “I worked at the National Broadcast Company-in supplies. I don’t know why she was interested in me. I was so shy. She was shy too I guess. She was from the music department.”
"We were married at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York," he says. "I lived in Brooklyn. She was from New Jersey. We thought we'd make the wedding in the middle, even though she wasn’t Catholic.”
He tells me that, on the morning of the wedding, a friend gave him a ride; picked him up early; drove all the way into town before, "at the Hotel Pennsylvania,” he says. “We realized I’d brought the wrong bag. I didn’t have my wedding suit.”
He dispatched another friend to run back to Brooklyn for the suit. Ed went inside the church to explain. “I was half an hour late to my own wedding,” he tells me, laughing. “The priest was impatient. ‘Eddie,’ he told me. " I’ve another wedding right behind you. Lace up those shoes!’”
After the wedding, Ed waited outside the church, greeting guests. “My wife was inside looking for me. I made a lot of mistakes.”
“What was her name?”
“Muriel,” he says. “She died... 57…”
“In 1957?” I’m trying to do the math. She’d have been so young. Did they have any children?
“What’s that?” he asks, leaning forward.
“Was she 57 when she passed, or was it 1957?”
He shakes his head. "She was 57. The cancer just swept her away.” He sighs.
The poem, "Ode to Eddie," calls him a flirtatious hunk with dazzling blue eyes. All the girls wonder why he hasn’t been plucked, it reads. Any of us would gladly try our luck.
In Ed's beautiful eyes, there has always been this twinkle. I can just imagine him, years ago. He's still a charmer. “You must have been something,” I say.
“What’s that?” he leans closer. I amplify, speaking slowly. He grins. “I was very shy.”
He takes the poem from me, refolds it into a precious packet which he tucks back into a pocket. “I never knew who wrote it,” he says. “She didn't tell me until we we'd been dating a while."
He pulls himself to his feet with his walker. “I thank you for the gift of your time,” he says. My response is drowned by the sound of the espresso machine.
Today, I showed this post to Ed and he read it with tears in his eyes - I watched him read, my own eyes brimming. He corrected a few errors - "I knew she wrote the poem before we were married," he said; and he told me the year Muriel had died, 1981. He gave me permission to run the story here, adding, "I don't know why you'd want to tell my little story..."
I tried to explain why his story had touched me, why I thought it might touch my readers. But he couldn't hear me. So I hugged him. And for both of us, that was gratitude enough.
-------
Note: The title of this little slice of life comes from David Gonzales, a brilliant storyteller and performer, who blesses my life with his friendship.
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