I’ve always liked to think that there are innumerable categories for being fearless. The fearlessness of being by the side of a loved one who is dying. The fearlessness of holding your tongue when you know what you will say will cause falling domino damage. The fearlessness of making small talk when everything in your chest and belly wants to shut down and run. The fearlessness of saying no when you think you most certainly must say yes. The fearlessness of following that one brilliant thought to its fruition, knowing that once you arrive at its destination, things will be different.
I follow my fearlessness with a wavering certainty that keeps me lifting the weights of my own delusions. This, I tell myself, is the bravest thing of all. To do those things that I think are impossible to do. Be open, let go, not assume, release taking things personally—all of these things are the most seemingly simple yet, if I were to admit it, are the most daunting in my every day life.
I’ve worked hard and long to wrangle my fears and bury them until they are sleeping but I’ve come to the conclusion that, in the process of my convoluted battle, I am becoming immeasurably brave.
Yours In Slaying Demons,
Funny, the things that remind you of youth. This tangerine tree, with its dainty little droppings of orange jewels was in the backyard of the hotel that Mister Cupcake and I stayed while I was working on a writing assignment and every time I cast my eyes on it I was overcome with my first and only venture into entrepreneurship. I was ten years-old—way before my soul began to loathe the concept of corporate greed and during the time that I realized one could capitalize on what might go to waste by taking that thing and offering it to others at a fair price.
You see, in the backyard where I grew up we had a grapefruit tree with a growth problem. My mother, armed with a hefty trash bag, would gather up the trillions of grapefruits that had fallen to the ground, dump them into a trash bag and unload them in a dumpster in the back of the ThriftiMart several blocks from our house. If our entire family were grapefruit addicts we couldn’t have kept up with the bounty this grapefruit tree provided so, in the end, there was enormous waste.
That’s when I had my epiphany. Load the grapefruits into my red wagon, go door-to-door to each of my neighbors and sell the grapefruits for a quarter a piece. On my first day I made close to ten dollars which, by my ten year-old estimation was approximately half a million dollars.
I got good reviews and delivered excellent customer service. I had regular customers who put in orders for, say, five grapefruits every Sunday morning to last them through the week. It was quite a snappy business I had going and I enjoyed the interaction with my loyal buyers.
This weekend, as I stared at the adorable little tangerine tree that we were lucky enough to have just outside our temporary home I gave that ambitious little ten year-old tomboy a high five when I thought about all that she’d accomplished with a wagon and a change purse and I admired the gorgeousness of the idea that one can never be too young to have a good idea that gives you pride and drive and purpose.
Waste Not Want Not,
Buellah the Business Man I Mean Woman
Anxiety is the cloak I wrap myself in and worry is the path I trudge along. It’s been that way ever since I can remember. Bare and plain and complicated. Washes over me without warning and leaves me prone, wondering what it is I did that got me here. Like a push and pull, I struggle with the abject bleakness of how I so easily fall into the prickly parts—the harsh and parched parts of myself that manifest as what would otherwise seem as malnourished. But in lighter moments I recognize the beauty of hibernation. The wisdom of raw, clear beingness from time to time and in those moments I’m free for a while. In those moments I’m full up with the anticipation of when I will be flourishing and vibrant again.
Yours In All That Continues the Wondering,
The message the moon gives me is never half-assed. It’s generally whole-hearted and clear as a bell, clanging the ingredients that live inside my chest out into the universe like a Town Crier—boomeranging far beyond the places that I can see and hear and then ricocheting back around the eternal space I’ve proclaimed for myself in order to be shiny and new, over and over again. I radiate brighter because of the moon. I shine and fill up and plan for my next showing. But mostly I reflect and wallow and wane, knowing that one look up toward the sky will catapult me into a new feeling phase where I will become more lucid.
There are times when I’m able to see what I do and there are times when I am not. In my most brilliant moments I can glance outward and inward at the same time, making sense of what it is I’m creating for myself, what it is I’m creating for the people around me. In my least lovely moments I remain asleep to who I am and what I do.
I’ve made it a point to try to keep myself next to myself, alive and thriving.
In the scrawniest part of my soul I wish I hadn’t chosen to examine and witness who I really am. It seems easier, at times, to be a sleepwalker, bumbling down tunnels of fluff, unaware of outcomes, causes and truths about my own frenetic nature—the way I want and long for and grab at and retreat from. How many times have I wished that I weren’t the way I am?
But as I’ve gotten older and I’ve practiced the job of promising myself to be aware of what I do, I’ve grown to admire the gorgeousness of humility and the far-reaching view my open eyes give me and for the first time in a long time I can take my own breath in and breathe my own breath out and say to myself That’s Beautiful.
Yours In An Alarming Amount of Cornball,