So in love

The summer after my senior year in high school sticks out in my mind. Prominently.

Not because there was a life changing event. Not because I was leaving high school and home and my friends. And not because I was getting ready to go off to college, the east coast and an unknown life.

It was because I was in love and in a deeply committed and satisfying relationship, the kind where you wake up in the morning and remember what you have and what you’re in—and it floods you with warmth and joy and YES! It was because it was one of those rare, extended periods—as in concentrated time, as opposed to 5 minutes bursts that occur every now and then—that I felt so sure, so committed, so ‘in it’.

It was because the relationship I was in was with me.

Not because someone broke up with me or because I couldn’t find anyone to love or to love me. And therein lies the rub. My high school boyfriend wanted to be with me, but I’d broken up with him when I left St. Louis for the summer. He eventually drove all the way to northern Minnesota to be with me, but I said no…again. There was a also a ceramics counselor who fancied himself in love with me, but I wasn’t having that either.

No brag, just fact. (Thanks for that one,  Joe.) My point is that the summer was so memorable because this ‘wanting to be on my own’ was purely voluntary. Chosen.

And I’ve been thinking about that summer. Remembering what it felt like—to be so happy…with just me. And, 19 years later, I’m seeing something I hadn’t noticed before, about why that time was so profound. The something is this: there’s a marked difference between reaching out. And reaching in.

Reaching out:

• Things are beyond your grasp, beyond your control.
• Essentially, they are other. Not you.
• And I don’t believe there can ever be total fusion of the two separate parts. But it’s what we spend endless effort trying to make happen.
• In a relationship, we’re trying to get others to say what we need them to say, to act like we need them to act, to read our minds.
• In the writing, well, it’s kinda the same. And the room for reader interpretation is pretty big, like the penthouse suite.
• I’ve seen too much now to believe that this complete fusion is possible. Cynical? Maybe, but I’m calling ‘em like I see ‘em. So often lately I’ve thought it would happen—with this group or these two people or maybe those three—but, nope.

Reaching in:

• Things are right there, available, customizable, known and understood even before you know and understand.
• Essentially, they are familiar. You.
• And the thought of fusion is actually redundant. We don’t need to spend time to make it happen, we just need to be. There is no separateness.
• In this relationship, it’s private, not on display. And you only have to answer to you. You get to see you.
• In the writing, well, it’s kinda the same. I mean, it’s ALL in there, inside.
• I’ve seen enough now to know that complete fusion exists. I’ve been lucky enough to feel it.

I’m thinking about rekindling this old flame.

Though there are moments when I think that will be impossible. Those are the moments when I’m standing alone in big, flat, open spaces with nowhere to hide. When there is a blank screen in front of me. When the idea of writing a book is dangled. When I feel like being loud, out loud, aloud and allowed. When I don’t want to be alone. When I want someone to read and love what I’ve written. When I’m looking out.

But, I gotta say, this remembered love affair has been peeking at me lately, from around random corners. It’s most abundantly felt when I’m writing, or in a groove with my work in general. It’s certainly there when I’m running et al. Sometimes it just appears and fills me up and says, “Remember how good this feels? How whole? How peaceful? How utterly painless?”

And I remember how alive I was during the relationship, over the course of that summer. By no means a hermit, hiding, sad or scared—but a good friend, an adventurer, a happy spirit, a big punch of delight, a live-er. Because I had everything I needed.

It’s that remembering that makes me want it back. Makes me want to call it and say, ‘Hey, it’s me…I was thinking we should see each other, even if it’s just for lunch.” Even though I know we’re going to end up in bed together.

And even though I’m still, out of habit, looking out—I’m clearly thinking, Nah, I’d rather stay in.

Image: Tony the Misfit

Filed under Myth or Reality, Writing | Tags: Blogging, copywriting, love, running, self, writer, Writing | Comments (11)

Under wild bangs, under every rock

As a woman who loves to ‘off-road’ it – either walking with or running with her dogs, and as a woman that – like many 20 somethings (and early 30′s in my case) – moved around a lot (refusing to settle or settle down), I will tell you that I found myself in this particular situation several times:

• I’d arrive in my new ‘hood and some nice local would point me in the direction of the woods, park, trail system, what have you,
• I’d go there and find myself completely lost – totally bewildered by the forks in the paths, the trees that all looked exactly the same, the trail markers which never quite seemed to match up or make sense,
• I’d have the feeling that this space was never going to feel familiar, that I’d always be lost;
• and then, a few weeks later, something would click. Trees, rocks, ponds would become so familiar, their markings read like nametags. I knew exactly where I was and I felt safe, part of the space, like I belonged. I’d wonder how this easy-to-navigate simple patch of land had once seemed so confusing.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about not being able to locate myself geographically. It was in response to a lot of things figuratively, but to my experience spending time in New York City literally. I couldn’t get my bearings.

This week I was back in the City…and like those clickable times in the woods, this week was Kaching and the City. I knew north, south, east and west. I recognized streets and stores and neighborhoods. People mentioned areas or avenues and I actually knew what they were talking about. As the subway passed certain stops, I could see in my mind exactly what the streets looked like above my head, above ground.

Why all of a sudden? What was different?

• Most notably, I was determined. Because I abhor weakness and the feeling of being lost and confused.
• I bought a map. An adorable little fold-up thing that I unabashedly studied.
• I laid down my crutches – which were in this case: A) cabs – expensive was one reason, but the other is that when you get into a cab, you just tell the cabbie the address and then you stop paying attention until he stops the car. B) I’ve been with friends that know the City like college students know their social security numbers – and with friends like that leading the way, who needs to have a clue about direction?
• Time and practice, of course. If you do something enough, you start to get the hang of it. So this is really about patience and hanging in there and knowing that even the most confusing, scary, displaced feelings, with time, will turn into confidence, direction and sure-footed movement forward.
• I harvested Outposts. In the midst of it all, over the course of the last 6 days, I saw 12 old, new and always good friends. They themselves were scattered around the City – inviting me to explore further, assuring me there was joy to be found under every rock.

*********************************************

Yesterday morning, I went for a run around the slushy streets of Brooklyn and through one of its small parks. This green space is a dog haven in the morning. I love the dogs of NYC, they’re so muttrified, they look poignantly like the rest of the City. As I crested the hill in Fort Greene by the monument, a particularly mutty, clumsy puppy came barreling towards me. He had little control over his fast growing legs and it didn’t look like he could see at all. His floppy hair hung in a mess over his face.

I leapt to the right avoiding his intended collision, but managed to reach a hand out and pat his little head, catching a glimpse of wildly hyper eyes under those heavy bangs. He slid past me happily thudding into a bank of snow. And I just kept going, moving forward with my steady stride, out of the park, heading east to my next destination.

Image credit: raybdbomb

Filed under How To, Writing | Tags: New York City, place, self, travel, Writing | Comment (0)

My ass just tapped me on the shoulder.

I’m standing on the other side of the abyss, the good one. And I wanted to let you all know that the ground here is high and dry, nearly heady.

Because I read your comments carefully – and because, as far as I can tell, we’re both human – I’m going to guess that at one point or another you’ve stood on the scary side of the abyss just like I did before I got to the cushy side.

You wanted to do something, you needed to do something…but the canyon that stood between you and accomplishment just looked too damn big, wide, menacing. Impossible, you said. And sat down.

My alarm goes off at 4:30. I jump out of bed and look out the window. It’s snowing. I smile smugly at the snow. Bring it, I think smugly. Pull on my layers of Capilene, my bright orange hat, my running shoes. And head out for an eight mile run before I go to work.

This used to be my norm. Miles run, laps swum, heart pounded, sweat drenched – before the sun rose.

And then my body abruptly took on new super powers forms of exercise: first, it grew another human being; then, it made milk. Needless to say, my body was preoccupied with performing miracles. Too busy to hit the trails or the pool.

But, last spring, something changed. My ass literally tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Um, I’m thinking we should shift things back into high gear…you?’

Which is when I realized that I was standing on that cliff. On the scary side of the abyss. I had a lot of reasons why I couldn’t take the leap:

• I’m too old.
• My body forgot how.
• Once you get past a certain point, it’s just pointless.
• I don’t have time.
• I’m so frickin’ tired.
• Have you seen my parents? (I love them and they’re beautiful, but they don’t have super model bodies. I’m just sayin’.)

In the middle of this tirade, I ran into a good friend who had just finished a long rollerblade, and she told me, “It gets you right here”, and she grabbed her butt. “Makes it burn,” she said. And my ass took notice. And, then it tapped me on the shoulder again. I took the bait. I didn’t think, just started to move again.

I had really believed all of my reasons why I couldn’t do this, but they just weren’t true. Bodies are amazing – they snap back in a way that is extraordinary. Minds do too. My ‘get up and go’ tape started playing again, as if I’d simply hit play again after a long moment with the pause button down. We both quickly forgot how long that moment had been.

Now, it’s been five months. And someone recently told me that my belly looks the same as it did when I was 16. Is that really true? Um, ish. Is it a miracle? Nah. I just think that I got way too comfortable on the pitiful side of the abyss. Too shlumpy to realize the infinite possibilities hanging out across the way.

Sometimes life feels like a series of cliff dives – scary, exhilarating, progressive. The above experience being just one of my abysses. For you, it might be finally going to law school, having a baby, getting up on that karaoke stage, or – drumroll, please – writing (creatively, professionally, bloggingly).

Whatever it is, I’ll save you a seat on the other side. Believe me, if you don’t already know, the view is fabulous.

Image credit: Scampercom

Filed under How To, Writing | Tags: creative writing, how to write, self, self-doubt, self-esteem, self-improvement, Writing | Comments (21)