Time to get my shit together time. No more wallowing in self-pity and waiting for all-that-will-make-me-happy to come knocking at my door with a massively overemphasized body in check form affixed to little hands and feet that are dancing a "fuck yeah!" jig. A shout of "Congratulations Ms. K" possibly accompanied by the ever-anticipated, but rarely heard, "you've won!" or perhaps "we're pleased to announce!" is not likely to be proclaimed out on my doorstep like the far-fetched, but still oddly alluring, commercials of my youth alluded could happen if only you played the game. It's time to take action.
It's time to write.
Few people know that I used to enjoy writing; I enjoyed it quite a bit. And yes, I'll admit to finding great satisfaction and an unbelievable sense of accomplishment and tenacious spirit when my writing was cited. Better still, however, was the intense pride that could overcome any anxiety when I'd be asked to share with fellow classmates the thoughts that had once thrashed around my brain and managed to survive long enough in the bizarre-o-jungle that is my cognitive thought process to be transferred in some cogent form to paper. My college friends would tell you, if I actually had any, that more than 1 professor either read or asked me to read aloud one of my papers.
I had no college friends the 3rd *ahem* time around because I was older and, though not necessarily more confident, I really didn't care that I was the girl who people rolled their eyes at the mere mention of, or the one who was said to "ruin the curve" for others. It was the last time in life that I can remember being so unaffected by an aspect of my milieu so constant and interwoven into everyday life. I actually didn't give a shit what people thought of me because my determination was so great and so genuine that I could not have stayed sane lest I believed wholeheartedly in my goals. I imagine this is what athletes feel like. Or maybe really good parents.
I felt... self-worth.
A far cry from almost 22 years ago when I graduated high school in the bottom 5% of my class. Though I wrote back then as well. I wrote beautiful prose filled with flowing thoughts that were articulate and precise and germane to whatever was happening around me. The words just never made it from my head to paper, or out of my mouth, sadly. But the writings, and even the re-writes, were there. Trapped. Trapped like the tightly encased starter-bloom of a flower that you sometimes see in a mixed bunch of cut stems.
Do you know the ones I mean?
I thought of this analogy today: Often in a bunch of mixed or wild flowers, there are a few tall, strong stems with a flower and an off-shoot that grew strong enough to stand on its own, but either never had to or was never given a chance. The original stem was so long that the off-shoot grew with it and even produced a bud, but never made it to the full bloom stage. These are always the flowers I feel the most depressed about when I have to throw away an old, withered bouquet. The ones who never got their chance to bloom.
But, every so often you can preserve the off-shoot and she will open to become her own flower. While the support flower decays, its stem turning to a slippery mush as it begins the journey to compost, and its flower has long since bloomed and is now drooped over petal-less, the off-shoot is just beginning to open. Freed from the larger flowers and having its stem revived with a mere snip, the new bloom can finally open. But someone had to remember to help it along- someone had to see it stuck in the middle of the bright bouquet when it was still closed up tightly, still unable to open.
It wasn't the off-shoot's natural time to bloom, but it was picked anyway and placed in a group left to struggle for water, air and nutrients- its essentials for growth.
I wasn't ready to write when I was younger. I wasn't ready to share my thoughts and feelings, though I had many. I was too closed, too consumed and smothered by the presence of others. Too overshadowed. Picked too soon and forced into existence within a group before I had what I needed to grow and bloom my own identity. Who knows why? Maybe the off-shoot is really an early bloomer who had the potential to be massive and strong, but it's growth was interrupted or delayed and it had to fight harder or go slower or wait out the masses. Maybe it was a straggler who lie dormant within the bunch waiting to be given the little bit of space and extra attention it needed to immerse itself fully into flower life.
Maybe I am full of shit.
But there does seem to me to be some parallel between the two, and perhaps that's why I didn't write, or focus on the process and joy of learning, in my "formative" years. I had to find my freedom and my little bit of extra attention. I like to think that my husband is my inspiration- my growth factor- because it's always comforting to think that the one you love is your muse; one that both guides and protects. But honestly, it was me. When it was my time to shine, I shone; and that bright light filled me with confidence and a sense of purpose.
The very same people I sought out to educate me and whose experiences were intended to be the catalyst for inquiring minds to continue to inquire and gain knowledge, were interested in what I had to say; what I was thinking, my perceptions and how I was processing a wealth of information was valued and judged and deemed worthy. Every top grade was like finishing a 5K on my way to training for a marathon. The end of every semester was like watching a flower garden go from seedlings to vibrant, gorgeous blooms. Graduation was like rebuilding an original sports car from the engine on up- it took years, I had to change my approach a few times and it was arduous but when I was done I had achieved that which many people are only able to dream. Pride is not always a sin.
I was resurrected.
And so it is that I find myself writing again. Trying to form cogent thoughts that make their way to written form. Trying to find my inner sense of self-worth that I know I must be careful not to smoother or fail to feed and water. Though clearly the challenges I now face are far different. Who are the teachers, the judges? Who will evaluate my growth and rate my progress in a measurable way? A way in which I can enjoy that healthy sense of pride? Who is going to give me the stamp of approval I so desperately desire.
Well therein lies the problem. Aint life a bitch? Just when we get old enough to get past having to please others for our needs: Parents to love and care for us, friends to validate and define us, teachers to teach us and then bestow upon us a quantitative and often subjective mark that is meant solely to classify, religious and spiritual leaders to guide and validate our choices- just when it shouldn't matter what anyone else thinks anymore is when it seems to matter most. Our need for gratification doesn't end when we shift roles, but where it comes from must.
So, now what to do? I can't stay up endless hours while I attempt to document the thoughts that used to flow as easily as the smoke from the bong that was most likely a great inspiration, nor do I have hours to write and re-write and think about it and re-write some more.
Blog. That's what I'll do I'll blog. Because lately I seem to be hearing a lot of "if you love what you do, it won't be work" and while I think that's horse shit, there is truth to taking some time for oneself every day, and today I feel like writing. Tomorrow I may feel like reading and the next day I may feel like walking or embarking on a new endeavor- maybe I'll rebuild a car engine?
The only thing that's certain is that I have to self-grade, and that sucks. but I guess it also means that I don't ever have to fail.
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