That faint, far off feeling of Spring coming on has always held me in its clutches. Not because I live in a cold war zone winter climate and I’m longing for warmth or sunshine or unencumbered existence, no. I long for Spring because I long for renewal—heartfelt start-overs, forever fresh do it differently’s, newness, different landscapes to observe and an alternate way to be.
It’s not that I dislike my day-to-day way of being. I forge forward and I observe what I do in the Winter, when things are more covert than above ground, and I bide my time until the time when I can bloom. Spring is the thing that makes it so. Spring is the thing that gets my engine revving—eager for the next adventure, the next place, the next project to explore.
In the Winter I hibernate and think. In the Spring I pop up, take aim and shoot, like an arrow that possesses some kind of magical thinking, knowing that now is the time to wake up and make a beautiful mess of things.
It’s the to and fro of life that keeps me interested—sadness and joy, hopefulness and desperation, calm and tumult. I could say that I am on a roller coaster that leads me up and down and down and up through each and every phase of feeling but it would be more accurate to say that I am strapped in on a rocket that catapults me into and out of whatever comes my way.
I only know that the whole big shebang of it waxes and wanes. It comes and goes. It envelopes and then recedes.
As the years have washed over me I’ve found a way to keep my footing. I plunge myself forward, with the confidence of one who conquers or I’ve retreated into darkness and solitude, knowing that eventually I will emerge again, unscathed.
Regardless, I’ve somehow found some kind of quirky rhythm that feeds my spirit and rejuvenates my soul without taking away all the things I’ve worked to cultivate—the way the moon comes and goes—I appear and disappear in a way that maintains my own shaky individuality and I find my way, barely, into the night sky, smiling.
Yours In Inching Forward,
Each year that passes, I like to think that I’ve grown at least an opening moment or two. I ask myself if I’ve expanded or constricted. Have I stepped out into the world or stayed, cocooned, in my cozy atmosphere of safety. If I could I would stay in the same place, content. But I know that the thing that will turn the trick has to do with me getting out into the messy, wild environment far beyond my comfort zone, far beyond my familiar. I’ve always struggled with stretching myself. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with what I dream myself to be and who I really am. All I know is that, when I push myself—out into the world—although it may feel fucked up for many moments, in the end I see myself as larger and more open. I reflect on a version of me that is who I think I really am. Beyond the fear and the anxiety and the trepidation, if I remember that the way to get there is to go through, I’m good. And each year that I grow twelve months older I can look back and say I did the best I can and that, more than anything else, is enough.
Here’s To Another Glorious Year,
The Birthday Girl
Not that I’d ever share this with anyone but I get a sort of vervey thrill from The Aftermath. It’s like I am Chuck Yeager and it is the sound barrier and I am going to break that mother fucker, with ease.
I go about things in a diabolically organized and mindful way. Overseeing the damage with a calm heart and then deciding where I need to start chipping away, because that is where all the rest of it will follow—digging each dessert plate our from under giant platters.
The layers of dishes and napkins and water pitchers and silverware and plates are simply remnants and reminders that my guests had fun. So, as I dive in with my serious cleaning face on, I dismember each and every pile that has been created, remembering that NO MATTER HOW MUCH LAST MINUTE MARTHA STEWART STEPHEN HAWKING PLANNING YOU DO everything goes to hell in a hand basket in the last four minutes before the feast is served. There is no way around this.
And so, as I gird my loins for the battle that I am about to fight, I like to whisper in my ear that it’s all done for a good cause and as the warm water flows over my shriveled up hands I say a little prayer that the mountain of The Aftermath just represents the amount of fun all the players had.
Keep On Scrubbin’
Deidre the Dishwasher
Dear Mister Big Man,
I know you are especially busy this time of year, what with all the wayward humans giving thanks and hoping for moist turkey, but if you could fit me into your schedy I’d be oh so thankful. If you could pinch my cheek ever so lightly and remind me of my vibrancy—JUST BECAUSE I AM ME—that’d be lovely. And if you could pick me up, gently, from the tops of my ears and whisper into my brain that YES everything is good enough that would be sublime. But mostly, and not lastly, could you beckon my heart to open and expand in a way that keeps me moving forward and letting each and every one/thing in? I know it’s a tall order but I think it’s what I want Amen and A-Ha you may be seated.
Yours In Semi-Impossible Striving,