Tonight, I write.
No real major teaching.
No date to review.
I feel deflated.
Kicked around like a bottle in the street.
That pit in your stomach that doesn’t want to go away–
I’m not sure that I want it to go away.)
The kind of stuff that I might usually write about on fb, but tonight–
I don’t want to.
I’d rather share it with you all,
the few people, some of you whom I know and others that I do not.
A friend of mine who I had met online a few months back, not long after my break-up
(I realized last night–with her help–that she was my “rebound”),
finally texted me after being M.I.A. for about a month.
“I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to insult you.”
(She now had my attention.)
I said that I’d rather her be in communication and insulting than not in communication.
So, she told me.
My fb posts annoyed her.
I annoyed her.
What annoyed her was that she felt like I was seeking attention with my fb posts.
She asked me why.
I said because I don’t want to be ordinary.
She told me that I wasn’t.
I didn’t explain it to her there, but I’ll do my best on here.
(This is more for me than you, by the way, and thanks for giving me the virtual and emotional space to write this.)
When I was a very, very young child I awoke in the morning with a knowing:
I was going to do something meaningful on this planet.
Not something small and meaningful, either.
It was going to be BIG.
Granted, I didn’t actually decide this as a conscious decision.
I felt it.
It was bestowed upon me, if you will.
That was before the major car accident that left me asking God, “Why me?” over and over and over.
My childhood was good enough. My parents loved me.
They were young, and they did their best.
Anyways, back to the dream.
It has haunted me ever since.
Why? Because of the pressure to actually DO something meaningful.
To BE someone meaningful.
A lot of hubris here. A lot of ego.
I’d be lying if I said that I’d wish it weren’t my burden to carry–
that I wish I, like Frodo, wasn’t entrusted with this weight.
But there is no ring; no magical anything…
but a memory.
And a feeling.
Back to what she said to me:
it just hit home.
I’m trying too hard.
Way too hard.
It comes off as inauthentic…
because it is.
I’m preaching. And it’s rather distasteful.
I have been feeling this weirdness lately, but she helped me to identify what it was; where it was coming from.
As was stated by one of the characters in the book, The Saddlebag, “I had started to stink.”
That’s a tough realization to have, at least for me.
It’s that public fart that you thought you were clever leaving,
but all the fingers point back to you.
Not fooling anyone.
Making a difference and wanting to “be someone” is a drug.
And I’m an addict.
I should probably be doing “12 Steps.”
Often I am utterly in awe of other people’s ability to be real–
to be authentic.
I bow to them in honor.
But we all have different paths.
The person who I really am hasn’t even fully emerged yet.
I believe that I could create a whole new life for myself–
One that is not based on self-importance or a child’s dream.
One that is based instead on connection and love and joy and laughter.
It amazes me how quickly the body can adapt.
I am thankful, even in this moment, for all the gifts that are constantly raining down upon me–
even in this very instant.
I have eaten some humble pie.
Laid me out on my back.
I will refrain from my desire to delete this blog, as well as to post it on fb.
Or to judge it.
I am tired and must shut this down.
Thanks for sharing some of this crazy journey with me.