I have come to the unfortunate realization that my little project was not the right project.
I know this because:
1) I started to procrastinate on it; and
2) I started to be bored - deeply bored - by my own words.
Never a good sign.
Yes, I want to nourish and notice. Yes, it's important to chase joy down, to grab joy by the hand and run straight into a field of wildflowers; to look joy in the eye and - full of anticipation and fear - leap from the end of the dock into the cold water below. Those things are immensely important.
But the truth is messier, and the messy truth is that my life isn't quite full of joy these days. It's joy-adjacent, through no fault of my own.
Self care does not mean deluding yourself that the shit sandwich handed to you is delicious. It might be on the finest bread, served on a china plate, with a lovely array of beautifully cut fruit arranged beside it, but the whole thing is tainted because, well, it's a shit sandwich.
Covid life is like that shit sandwich. I KNOW how lucky I am to have that plate of fruit, to have alternatives to choose from. But I also know that a shit sandwich is not something to celebrate, and I don't need to feel guilty for acknowledging that I am angry at even the suggestion of a shit sandwich. I know that there are those who have it worse, that I've had it worse, that it won't last forever, to count my blessings, to notice the good all around me, yada yada yada.
But this isn't a love and rainbows time of my life. I'm trapped in the house (or so it feels) because of Covid. I'm having a hard time feeling inspired by work. The house feels empty with Tessa gone. I worry about my weight, the end of democracy, the fact that I'm overdue for the dentist, and whether my daughter is on the right path and how I can help her to find her path. I haven't been inside a theater in over two years; I haven't traveled. I'm weary from all of the sitting, and angry with myself for not doing more to utilize this "precious down time" that is "an opportunity to reflect." I have not written the great American novel, or even a crappy first draft that nobody will ever want to read. I didn't get national boards certification, develop abs of steel, or master the Sunday crossword puzzle. I've done well enough - I haven't fallen apart, I've served my students, I've helped my daughter enter and transition to college, and I've gone on lots of walks even if I haven't run a marathon (or a half marathon, or a 5k). I've done coloring pages, made dozens of pairs of jewelry, and started a little embroidery project. I've tried blogging, journaling, and working on the book (I believe it will be great). I've done tiny house projects. I've saved some money, tucked into my savings account where sometimes I open my banking app just to see the number, to reassure myself that at this point in time, I'm safe enough.
Is it good enough?
None of your business.
No, I'm opening myself up here, so I don't mean to be rude, but what I mean is: you can judge me, one way or the other, but whatever you (dear Reader) think as you read this, I am trying.
And that is all anyone can do.
So I'm not going to write about unicorns and rainbows, because pretty fast it got monotonous. There aren't that many changes in my day to day right now; there aren't grand adventures and the tiny adventures are repetitive. Plus, if I was having grand adventures, could I write them in a way that didn't sound like an awful Christmas letter, half truths and grandiose claims designed to prove to someone - maybe me? - that my life was worthwhile?
This is a fallow time. I feel myself in the waiting time, not the exciting boundless energy time. So, I'm going to acknowledge this, and not focus on that.
***
Instead, I'm going to share my thoughts as they come, without one whit of care about whether they're the right thoughts for the right audience.
And right now my thoughts are about manifesting.
***
I do not believe in The Secret, because I think it's cruel. All over the world there are people who can barely take a breath because they are so busy with the painfully awful work of existing: because they are bedridden with disease, because they are managing intergenerational trauma, because they are fleeing war or famine, because their drinking water is unclean and the fires and tornadoes and floods are coming. You get my point. Telling people to manifest despite these odds just seems like a strange, unkind joke. People all over the world are whispering "please make my baby well" with every cell of their bodies vibrating with urgency, love, hope, pain, fear, and sometimes those babies die despite those vibrations. I know that, and to minimize it would be unkind of me.
So take this with a grain of salt.
Somehow, I've been able to manifest some very important things in my life.
When I got divorced, I had been out of the workforce for more than a decade, struggling with cancer most of that time, and I had an elementary school child. I still don't entirely know how it happened, but I was able to find a job that - while not the right job for me long term - was exactly the right thing for me at the right time. Not only did it pay my bills - just barely, but it did cover them - but it reminded me of who I could be, and helped me to return to myself as I exited that unhealthy marriage.
And I kept the house. When Tessa begged me, in tears after learning of the impending divorce, to keep the house, I made her a promise. It was rash of me: I knew I couldn't afford this big old house that not only has more space than we need, but also is nearly a century old and constantly in need of some new repair. (In December the dryer went out and needed replacing. In January, it was the hot water tank. Who knows what February will reveal.) But somehow, I held tight, and despite every bit of logic or reason, I was able to keep it, and even to sometimes make some improvements.
And I wanted a new sofa - something neutral and classic - and voila, a friend gifted me one. I wanted a bike, and it came up on Buy Nothing. I'm still not sure if I manifested Tessa's college acceptance and the whole experience of moving into a dorm (shopping and packing and unloading and setting up), but the whole thing is such a miracle that I refer to it as The Miracle.
And I shouldn't forget that when I decided to return to teaching, that very month (unbeknownst to me) they changed all the rules so that all I had to do to get recertificated was to fill out my name and address and pay less than $100, and that one month after making the decision to return to teaching I had my own classroom, 14 years after leaving teaching, and I got to teach at the same school with the same preps as when I had left. It was extraordinary.
Sometimes I've manifested free things: something I absolutely need and can't afford, or something I long for but can't justify - and it just appears. (Airpods - twice. A living room set. Patio furniture that is exactly what I had in mind. A bicycle. So many things!) I feel like I'm still manifesting my ability to pay my share of Tessa's college expenses. (Extraordinary. I still don't know how it happened. I got a raise at the right time, I was able to refinance with record low interest rates... I got so lucky.)
I'm ready to manifest some new miracles in my life, and I'm feeling optimistic and hopeful and like the light is coming. Some of it is work I must do to lay the foundation of my life, and some of it is going to come down to blind, dumb luck - a blessing from the Universe that I ask for but probably have no claim to; something I long for even though it's out of reach.
I don't know how to teach someone to do it. I can't do it with 100% accuracy all the time, and there's one miracle in particular that feels really late in arriving. But I also know, somehow, that this is a thing.
It's time for me to manifest some more things in my life. To dream big, to make space in my heart for what I really want, and not just for what life hands me. I acknowledge that while I'm going to work really hard for it, it's also going to come down to luck - which is another way of saying The Universe that some people call God.
Mary Oliver says, "I don't know what a prayer is," and I feel that with all my being, despite my prayers, belief, faith, refusal to categorize God into some box called religion (sacrilege to some, I think God would agree with me). She continues by saying "I do know how to pay attention," and that is how I feel. I'm watching, listening, waiting. Somehow I feel sure, despite the uncertainty. And that feels like what I think a prayer might be, even though I don't know.
I'm grateful for the gifts of my life, for the extraordinary surprise of being able to walk away from my family with the knowledge that it was time to break an inter-generational trauma cycle and survive to tell the tale; for this big old house that houses my heart as well as my body; for a daughter who, despite missteps, is finding her way to her dreams; for work that is meaningful and that I'm good at; for being able to make this life of mine into something.
Sometimes I can turn nothing into something, and it's a miracle to witness.
I don't know what a prayer is, but I'm praying.
