Happy 2010!
…So much for my weekly Advent reflections.
You see, I was already behind on the correct week of Advent when I’d started them, reflecting on Week 1 while we were actually moving into Week 3. I allowed this to make me feel pressured to catch up. I procrastinated, couldn’t think of what to write-even though I tried a few times- and quickly got distracted, felt guilty that I hadn’t blogged “properly”-meaning once a week-so I gave up on it all together. I then got thoroughly wrapped up in the despair I felt at being unemployed and broke, and proceeded to write nearly a novel to all of my friends telling them about that despair. I received words of encouragement and prayers, gifts and advice, job leads. I felt moved, and blessed, and loved. I then traveled to Missouri and had a blissful Christmas with my family (including one ginormous moment of queeer acceptance), returned to NYC, moved into a new amazing apartment, had a sudden pick-up of job opportunities-one of which a seeming “dream job”…
But I still hadn’t written. Nothing. None of my reflections that I’d meant to write: on my couch odyssey, the generosity of my friends, the millions of tiny things that I received, discovered, and tried that helped me grow leaps and bounds; what I’d learned and what I was learning; where I’d been, where I was, and where I was heading. So much electric change and stuff of miracles had passed through my December, and I hadn’t written about any of it.
I ”hadn’t written about any of it” for awhile.
I’ve been stuck in a curious place for about six months now, life-wise, and thusly word-wise. Or maybe it’s word-wise and thusly life-wise. Perhaps it’s both. It’s probably both, for one always affects the other. The only way I can describe it is this: Since about June of 2009, as I’ve moved through the world, particularly moved through decisions, I’ve felt as though I’m trudging through a vat of iced cold peanut butter, blindfolded.
I can’t see anything or hear anything, but I can feel everything. It sticks to me so acutely that I can’t move; I can only stand and shiver in the iced cold sludge and let all stick. And God help me if I want to write about any of it. I can’t move my arms, can’t find a pen or paper or computer in the sludge, nor could I see or hear anything I’d attempt to write or say. At the end of the day, all I can do is take in the cold sludge, surrender to all that’s sticking to me, and keep trying to trudge through it, though I have a feeling I’m not getting very far when I do.
Have you ever experienced this?
I’ve had a few breaks from the iced cold peanut butter sludge here and there. I was able to tweak my screenplay for about a week, but I think having a deadline helped. I’ve written a few scant journal entries, and-as we know-the beginnings of a well-intentioned weekly reflection blog. And emails to friends and loved ones. But the rest of the time, it’s as if I’m feeling everything so deeply that I can’t write about it. Unless I write from the sludge. But, considering my aforementioned description of such sludge-how do you write from it?
Perhaps it’s a new normal phase of the writing life that I’m not used to. These past three years, written art has literally burst out of me: a novel, a feature screenplay, a short screenplay, a short story, poetry, etc. Now all of these projects are in the editing/send ‘em out/shop ‘em around phase; I haven’t really been working on anything new. It’s been difficult to do so. The editing/send ‘em out/shop ‘em around projects are still being edited/sent out/shopped around. I have about six irritated, chomping-at-the-furniture 21 year olds still living in my house, desperate to move out and go out and live in the world as the wonderful adults they are. But first, first….they have to find a college that accepts them. And they haven’t yet. I, the parent, had expected them to be gone by age 18, had expected us to move into the next phase of our parent-child relationship, with them thriving and me with room for the next soul to nurture and cultivate. But it hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know how to take care of a 21 year old still living in my house. I try my best, try to tend to their frustration and held-back-ness, try not to take it personally when the outer world doesn’t love my brilliant baby, and-lest we forget-try to figure out why the hell I’m now trudging through this iced cold peanut butter sludge.
So many things-so many things-in my life are wonderful right now. So much has transpired since June: new relationships, incredible discoveries, cherished memories, gifts, opportunities, transitions. And each time I’ve wanted to sit down and write about them, I’m gripped by the iced cold peanut butter sludge. Almost like a pain, a physical pain, when I sit down to write anything. A pain that makes me want to scream.
What does this all mean?
Did I also mention that I’m allergic to peanut butter? I am. I absolutely love the stuff, but eating it makes me dizzier than hell.
Dizzily trudging through iced cold peanut butter sludge, blind-folded. Yep, that’s me all right. Happy, blessed, but dizzy and sticky and can’t write worth a lick.
…Even though I guess I just did.
[image courtesy of Google]
