Dear Writing: the Death of Ideas + Content

It's pretty simple, really.  I sometimes have this fear that if I write too much, I will use up all my good ideas.  And there will be nothing left.  Like I have a predetermined amount of funny jokes, witty references (still waiting to use those), insights, snarky remarks, social commentary, plot lines, characters, experiences, morals, questions, big words.  Like a female has eggs.  I only have so many of all those things to use, and I can't acquire more, and if I use them up too quickly, I will be done.  I will go into writer's menopause.  And that will be it.  There will never be another thing for me to write ever again.

I have realized I am actually afraid of that.  Isn't that crazy?
Wait.  Let me rephrase that.  Is that crazy?
Is it a subconscious tactic in procrastination? Like if I hold onto all my ideas because I have a fear of running out of them then it presents a fairly logical reason to ration writing of any kind.
Maybe it's a subconscious act of self-protection. That, in keeping all my ideas to myself, I am protecting myself from ever being exposed to failure and the possibility I'm really not good at writing at all and the long drawn out existential crisis that would surely follow.

I mean, these are all possibilities. Simply discovering the fact that I have been walking around believing I only have a limited number of things to say for the rest of my life was pretty incredible. The realization of this fear has made it easy to see the humor in it and takes away the power of its potential truth.

And on the other hand, some of the writers, comedians, storytellers, and musicians I admire most spend their entire career telling the same kinds of stories, just with different details, circumstances, and feelings. So maybe it's not such a bad thing.

Maybe, a person should just do what they feel moved to do.
Maybe a person should just do what they feel moved to do and fight the critical voice inside of them that says it's repetitious or boring or old or recycled or not any good at all.
Because maybe the bigger point is not weather what you do is any good or not, but that you have a thing that you feel moved to do at all.
Maybe having that thing is part of success, and just doing it is the other part. Maybe its goodness or abundance or popularity is an ancillary bonus.

Maybe I should write because I like to write, and if I only have five stories to tell I will just spend the rest of my time telling them over and over and that will be the truth of my life. And at least there will be a thing that I enjoy doing.
Ok. Yeah. Maybe that's it. I feel comfortable with that.

Champion voice: 1
Critical voice: 0

See you next round, fear breeding critic.

Dear Relationships: We Missed Our Anniversary

*It took 3 weeks to post this because that's how long we looked for a photograph of the two of us that was nice.  We are historically terrible at taking pictures together.  So here's one from a date last spring that has been spliced together. *

So the thing is that right now I am feeling really grateful and sentimental and reflective but you have to understand that last night I was at work, starving, building cocktails into a keg while the Giraffe and I passed a couple of texts back and forth about how we were pretty sure it was our anniversary.  And being elbow deep in simple syrup and coconut cream I got really disappointed in our lack of planning, and feeling hangry (hungry + angry, in case you've never been there) I sent this text:
This is dumb.  Who cares.  Let's just pretend we don't even have an anniversary.

Because I am a grown up wordsmith who is at all times deft at communicating feelings!

Needless to say we spent the rest of the evening discussing it, eating tacos, and watching tv in bed with our dogs. As you do, when you are at the end of an anniversary you forgot to celebrate.

I felt confused about the whole thing, really.  One thing about me is that I love celebrations.  I love holidays, weddings, birthdays, ceremony, tradition, sentiment expression, pinatas, everything.  I love occasions to do something different and exchange your feelings with a loved one.  So it seems quite odd that I would have let a day like this arrive and pass without any planning or preparation or love notes.  But it just kind of...happened.  I thought about things we could do all year, we talked about how it was coming up, and then, whoops, there it was.

This is in part due to the fact that my intentions come from the best place, but I easily build expectations that cannot possibly be met.  So in worrying I won't meet the expectations I have created I wind up doing absolutely nothing instead.  If we can't go to Palm Springs and learn to play golf in funny outfits looking totally tan and beautiful for our anniversary then we will do nothing! (side note: playing golf sounds really hilarious but I have no serious interest in doing it. I mean, it's golf.)  It is also due to the fact that for the last two anniversaries we have been in flux.  It always falls during that time of year when money is tight, there is no routine or schedule to our lives, and we are just focusing on the fundamentals of survival.  It's kind of inconvenient to spend money and time doing something that doesn't matter the way paying bills, working, making career goals, seeing family, or fixing our furnace matters.  If our anniversary was in August we would be golden.  So, I guess it's our bad for melding our universes in the dead of winter. (Hey, single people! Shack up in the summer! It will likely be more convenient later on!)

I think it is also due to the fact that when you finally reach the day you are supposed to celebrate the fact that you have this awesome relationship you realize that it is kind of meaningless to point it out on one day above all others.  It's like Valentine's Day.  Why do we celebrate that?  Shouldn't we be celebrating love all year long? I don't know how it is for other people, but I am blessed to be in a relationship with a partner who communicates his love to me on a daily basis.  We are thoughtful and romantic (ew) with one another on days that don't mean anything and not because we have to but because we want to.  Every day for the last two months the Giraffe has come to me in the morning when it is time for me to get up, knelt down beside the bed, kissed me, and handed me a cup of coffee.  That is some thoughtful romantic shit!  That is not a thing that he is obligated to do. (although I am getting quite accustomed to the luxurious treatment.)  That is a thing he does because he loves me and wants to add to my happiness.  We say thank you for things we are thankful for in the other person.  We talk about feelings, special memories, and plans for the future.  We do this at the grocery store, walking the dogs, and aimlessly looking at the internet on our respective computers.

It was our 5th anniversary yesterday, and in five years I can say that expressing sentiments and celebrating our relationship has not faded in the slightest.  To be honest, as we continue to become more grounded mature human beings it has probably gotten better.  It is an inherent part of our relationship.  Exchanging feelings of love is woven into the fabric of our relationship like some sappy, embarrassing sweater that you can't take off. I feel self-conscious to admit that because I am afraid it sounds like I am saying things are perfect, and they are not.  Our relationship is real, and therefore imperfect.  I am just very very blessed to be with someone who naturally communicates feelings with a similar frequency to me.  (I said similar, not equal!)

So it was our 5th anniversary yesterday, and I was feeling disappointed that we didn't do anything and then also feeling confused about why it mattered.  Because honestly, aside from the implied societal pressure to give a shit about it, I don't think it actually matters that much at all.  What really is special is that we have been together that long, and have done all the things that we have done, together, and when you're our age five years still seems like an impressive amount of time. But there is nothing pertaining to love or gifts or feelings that I need from him that I don't already get.  Except maybe some lavish gifts.  What can I say, I love presents.

In the end we wound up eating a bag of tacos (not a euphemism) and reading the email I sent him with his flight itinerary so many winters ago, when he met me in New York and our relationship began.  And sharing a moment of acknowledging that the journey thus far has been incredibly special, and we want to continue on it together.

Maybe someday when we're married we'll "do" more "things" to celebrate.  But for now, it turns out discussing our forgetfulness, a sack of Mexican food, and an email is just as meaningful and a WHOLE LOT cheaper than a weekend away. To walk away from yesterday feeling disappointed would be to miss the point.

I would also like to take this moment to publicly thank the Giraffe for "hanging in there" all this time.  I'm sure that I'm nice or whatever, but just ask any of my exboyfriends, being with me can be a real THING.  It takes a lot of patience, driving me around, doing the laundry (I'll just let it go unwashed forever), listening to me talk my way through everyyyyyyything, reminding me it's time to go to bed (and get up), planning, processing, problem solving, navigating feelings (all the feelings), and picking up after me (tiny tornado) to be in this relationship.  So, thank you Cary.  Your incredible patience and kindness does not go unnoticed.

And now that I've sufficiently grossed myself out with the public displays of affection I'm going to go listen to some super hard rap songs and act really tough.

It's ok to admit that love is nice and feelings are real.
It's just a little embarrassing to be all about it out loud.
I'm working on appreciating as much as I practice complaining.

Dear Mom, thank you for the small moments

I come home from work tonight, at the end of a long day that comes at the end of a long week and I am so exhausted. Cary puts on my mom's vinyl copy of Crosby Stills Nash and Young's "so long" and goes into the kitchen to make dog food. The fancy lights I bought for our living room six months ago, that we finally installed six days ago, are on and they make the house feel warm. It is a golden womb. Sadie sits watching Cary cook for her with intrigue and patience. Walter is laid out majestically on our shaggy rug, practically camouflaged, and he wags his feathered tail each time I look at him. All I can think of is how much I have just done, how much more I have to do, and how badly I have to pee. Then, "our house" comes on.

"I love this song," Cary says. "I used to always listen to this song when I was a kid, and just imagine that what they were talking about was exactly what being a grown up was going to be like." Then he quietly goes back to cutting carrots.

I am standing here, in the golden light of our living room, in a house that I have bought with a man that I love, exhausted, covered in sticky sugars from work, looking at a little dog wagging his little tail at me, listening to the record play, and something washes over me.

Growing up I listened to my mother play and sing this song countless times. Hearing it makes me think of her singing it, and it feels safe. I am thinking of this song, and my mother, and my mother singing this song to me smiling, and it hits me. In this small, insignificant moment, it hits me. My mother has passed the torch to me and this song is my life now. The possibilities in this song are now open to me. The opportunity to have a home and share a life of work and joy and small moments with the people I love is now mine, and I am taking advantage of that opportunity. I am nearly 30. I am the age my mother was when she sang this song. She has handed it off to me. I am an adult now.

I have always looked at my mother as a person I will never catch up to but dream of being like. She is unparalleled to anyone else in her beauty, humor, love, zeal, authenticity, talent, and kindness. In my mind my mother is IT. She is the beginning and the end and knows secrets I will never know because she is other worldly and I am a regular human. I love my mother beyond measure.

Tonight I discovered that she was raising me to be the woman that I am, and that I am, right now, in this moment, in the golden light and music, a woman. I discovered that she has given me the secrets. With a voice like vibrating honey and a spirit full of radical joy, she raised me with this song and was preparing me for a life of happiness and success. I inherited humor and wisdom and grace (well, some grace) from her because she gave it to me. She gave everything she has to me. Because she loves me beyond measure.

And tonight I discovered that my respect for this woman is now matched by a new level of gratitude for the life I have, in such great part, to her. Under her care I unearthed my life's purpose at age 4. Under her care I found I was a (loud) feminist at age 15. Under her care I chased after my dreams and fell down over and over and over and over and did not give up. Under her care I found a partner who is so loving, thoughtful, respectful, wise, and funny he is nearly fictitious. Under her care I have been able to work on viewing life and it's successes as a long game, full of failures and unexpected changes. Under her care I have evolved.

I cannot think of a funny way of saying what I want to say. I suppose it's just not very funny. This song is playing and I know something I didn't know before and it makes me love, respect, appreciate and understand her in a new way. It makes me know her better than I did five minutes ago. And that is a gift she has given me.

To the most radiant, kind, strong, warm, beautiful woman, with the most beautiful voice and happiest eyes, thank you. Thank you for helping me to become what I am. In this small moment, I have so much to be grateful for.
Love,
Your daughter