Pain, lately.... the truth of something without being able (knowing how) to communicate it... that kind of pain. The pain that gets caught in your throat or stuck to your chest like a magnet, freezing you in place. The pain of disconnect, of knowledge vs. control, or lack-there-of.

The pain of perspective. The pain of compression. Of change. The pain of the sun out of a dark room... of the air out of the water, the pain of fire, the pain of ice. The pain of confusion, dizziness. The pain of being lost. The pain of being found. The pain of finding yourself. The pain of fear of finding yourself.

Lost in Place

I have always had a way of thriving off of the requirements of high-energy situations. I avoid writing "crisis" or "chaos" because I don't think I want to affirm that in my life, but they may be the most accurate way of communicating what I'm trying to describe.

I LOVE the excitement of problem-solving with a *short* deadline. I know this is one of the key ingredients in my deep love of live theatre. Last week, we had an actor out sick, and had to figure out how to go on with the show (actor with a script), two months ago a prop needed finishing 20 minutes before opening night, then at intermission a prop broke and needed repair with five minutes left before the top of the second act. DELICIOUS.

This is important in understanding my current situation. In the middle of a major life shift/move. As we wait to close on our new home and current home sales... 

PACKING

Granted, I can't be quite so hard on myself, this I know. Packing isn't fun. At least, not for most people. I can FIND the fun in packing... I like fitting things together, afterall. (this is why LEGOs are so successful, I'm sure of it, because it is so satisfying to fit things together) And I like where all this packing is going, but I know that I am being slowed by my fears and excuses and tiredness... 

Until now, there has been this amorphous "sometime this month" we need to be ready to move "deadline." Now there is an endpoint. There is a date. There is a clearly defined timeline, and I expect to feel like there is a surge of energy, readiness, to rise to the urgency of the situation. 

But no. I sit. I yawn. I resist. I grumble. Probably because MOVING SUCKS.

Even when the move is exciting (scary), and promising (scary), and delicious (scary), and you feel so ready (scared), there is no getting past the fear of change except to move through it. I have these visions of all the times I have moved (over 20) and all the times I've been caught by a time capsule of items and have to crawl my way out of the dark pit of "identities gone by" that comes with going through everything you've ever owned, or at least what's left of it.

I vacillate between the freedom of choosing what's next for me, and the fear that I don't know what that is. Even though there are all of these things I know... I know how to return to self to stay grounded. And here I am flailing. And so it's true and not true all at the same time. Or maybe just by writing this I am able to remember the truth.

I gotta go pack.

 

A love letter to my blog

Thank you for being here, even when I am not. There are so many things I want to say—not just to you, but to the world, to the vast expanse of existence, to the molecular, to the stars... to myself, even, to explore.

I think of you often. Knowing that you are here gives me a sense of comfort. Sometimes, I have feelings of grief or shame that I do not come to you more often... often, actually, I have these feelings. But you are always waiting, without judgement, without conditions.

I have so much to say...

And I am learning, now, how what I have to say is completely my own. I am learning, now, how maybe in the past I put myself up against this idea, of what *who* I thought other people thought I was. How I defined myself in relationship to how I perceived them perceiving me. That's how I identified who I was, but it was an illusion, it was a mirrror within a mirror. 

I am becoming. I become. In this, I recognize my connections and reflections as relationships, and define those relationships from a place of personal truth.

You are very important to me, blog. This is what I want you to know. My relationship to you feels as ancient as anything. It is a relationship to self. Thank you, for being here, even when I am not, through all of the painful and beautiful and mysterious. I love you.

The insufferable, inescapable frustration and sometimes disgust at the meaninglessness of everything you've written like: what is the point of this even existing—versus the acknowledgment of the process and worth/value of the steps and information and learning along the way—and also knowing that some of that *angstiness* is actually old shit that is still internalized from probably when you were a teenager and someone let you down in some big way that doesn't apply anymore and you have to let go of, and also the knowledge that not everything you write makes you feel this way but that sometimes when hormones are surging through your body nothing feels like it matches anything, and it is so uncomfortable to feel out of alignment with yourself.

Fuck.

There is nothing that makes me feel as petty and whiny and *angsty* as when I am feeling self-aware while writing, and yet I MUST.. And probably it would do me good to do so more often, and maybe in some ways to write on paper is more productive or *fulfilling* or like, more personal and therapeutic or authentic but then... there's those somethings that click in a real way, in the depression of the keys under my fingers when I barely have to think about how they need to get where they want to go. It's so fast. The feeling is so delicious.

And there's this question—that doesn't feel like a true question, or maybe THE true question, like there's a question underneath or behind it, hiding...of whether or not I am holding myself back from cultivating something MORE, if there's another way, a way that is better for me, deeper for me...

And all of this started because of this thing that was nagging at me to write about, but that is not what you are reading, you are reading something else...

So I guess what you're reading is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

huh.