Thirty-Seven
Today marks thirty-seven years since the day of my birth. Since the start of the thirty-sixth year, my experience of my own life has once again changed (of course, of course).
A self-indulgent review (because it is my birthday):
Around the middle-end of April, I was able to start making short drives again after seven months of not driving at all. Thank you, brain. End of May, I was able to make the three hour solo drive to my yoga therapy training site and resume the process of completing the coursework I’d begun in 2019. Beginning of October, I drove up one more time and did complete that coursework. Thank you, teachers.
I also started participating in short story challenges, in hopes that my skills would improve with more structured practice (you can read a recent one here). I started writing the second novel while working to edit the first. I have begun the process of learning about query letters - a skill all its own. Thank you, those who have refined it.
These things feel good, most of the time.
Each step in this direction, each time I risk sharing some piece of creation, is a practice of faith. I am not owed my own perfection or expertise, and neither do I owe it. Expertise may one day be earned, but perfection, as a state of completeness, will perhaps only be an option upon dying. So we can probably let that one go.
I seek to find an effort that is worthy, which requires that I practice the effort in the meantime.
Another thing I’ve been pondering - introversion vs isolation. I notice the days in which my screen time is highest are the days in which I am by myself the most. Without meaningful work or connection, I search for something to supplement. It never works. And so I grow hungrier and more irritable, on days like that.
And it ain’t just me.
A society which has been putting in great efforts to isolate its people has made significant strides in that aim. Separated by our experiences of identity and what we are told that means for how to relate to other identities, we blame.
Political parties demand that we pick a team, or else we are traitors to their cause (which seems to consist of vague social posturing for fundraising in exchange for more bombs, more money to the wealthiest, and more stress for the rest).
Asynchronous interactions online tell us what’s wrong with us, what’s right about us, without knowing us at all.
A years-long habit of social distancing and isolating due to a pandemic that killed millions persists. We never really processed or acknowledged that collective experience as a society, it seems to me.
I don’t know about y’all, but I’ve gotten weird(er) after these last few years.
The first time I showed up to a group event was… well, the words I said to my husband were, “I don’t know how to do this anymore.” Whether or not I ever did is a separate question (and one I’m not taking feedback on, at this time).
What I’ve come around to is that I can do a better job of stepping out of familiarity for the sake of connection. It is something I value as an idea, but my practice could use some strengthening.
It’s uncomfortable, but so are plenty of things. So is running, but I love doing that. So is hiking up steep switchbacks with a heavy backpack, but those are the circumstances for some of my favorite memories.
Discomfort need not be a deterrent.
I’ve managed to make steps. Consistency will be the thing.
In moments of feeling uncertain about rejection, I remember the question, “Will this matter when I die?” How would I frame it for myself, if I were about to go? Would I want to have that fear be my main influence, or can it be something I choose?
What I notice is that on days in which I’ve chosen to go into connection, I feel lighter. Hope is more accessible when I am in community, when there is laughter and storytelling and problem solving and comforting. I constantly fall back into the illusion of being alone and, thankfully, I am reminded again and again that this is not so. It never was.
That is what I want to look back on when it is time for me to go, whenever that day arrives (which I hope won’t be for at least another thirty-seven years - more if I can get ‘em).
It is not a practice I have perfected, but as mentioned earlier, that cannot be something I expect to be owed or owe.
I can say that I’m grateful to keep trying.
To everyone who has been a part of this process - thank you. I love you. I am glad to keep knowing you.
And I look forward to seeing you soon.
