Blog vs Journal

So, I haven't really felt like writing lately for ye ol' blog lately. Maybe you've noticed.

I'll come online - to write an update - and I'll stare at the screen for awhile until I decide I'd rather not spend any more of my day staring at a screen. And then I'll turn off the computer and go about my day.

The other day I did a strange thing though: I wrote by hand in my paper journal - a space that has been pretty much ignored since I started this online diary thingamajig.

And, oh wow, it felt SO good.

So maybe I do feel like writing, but not in the way I have been these last few years. To write for an audience (even if small or merely perceived) is totally different than writing for yourself.

Unedited, stream of consciousness, raw honesty - not worried about sounding good or saying the wrong or right thing or oversharing or making people uncomfortable because I'm lonely/bored/uninspired/too inspired/et cetera. I didn't even know I missed that sort of writing, but apparently I did!

I started this goodbyeuglyrobe project to be more intentional about self-care and exploration, but suddenly I am not so sure if I've gotten closer or further away from the heart of the project. Because just thirty minutes of writing by hand - privately, for myself - made me feel closer to myself than I have in many, many entries on here. Cut straight through the BS - even if it did give me a slight hand cramp.

I'll be back. Here and there, when the feeling moves me.

But for the moment, I think I need a little more unedited time just for me.

...



Oh, by the way, my taste-testers told me my green tomato pie turned out perfectly. They couldn't believe it was my first-ever homemade crust. Beginners luck.

There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.

the letters you never send: anne

Most importantly: I'm sorry.

I hate that our friendship ended over some careless texts. My therapist says she wishes "young people" wouldn't have actually important conversations over text message. I feel like I am young enough to make this mistake and old enough to have known better.

You asked me if your antiracism rant scared me.

It didn't scare me.

I didn't realize you were the only person of color at the party I brought you to. It made me angry that you were alone in this realization; it is fucked up beyond belief that I didn't even notice until you pointed it out. That scared me. It made me angry. It made me think.

I didn't know what to say when you started to talk to me about racism and how it shows up in all these subtle and not so subtle ways in society. White people were milling around me in afro wigs and dancing to appropriated music and it took your perplexed look and my "what are you thinking?" to see what was right in front of me.

I wasn't scared. You didn't scare me. I was, however, scared of saying the wrong thing. It is okay that I was scared of saying the wrong thing? Can you allow me to be a little bit flawed and a lot human?

I was disappointed that when you opened up to me and shared your thoughts (what you called via text a "rant," and what I would have never called a rant), that I didn't know what to say.

I have so much more to learn and in the moment I didn't have anything of value to say to you and so I froze up and mumbled half-thoughts when you over and over again asked "what do you think?" It made me feel disgusted with myself. I thought about it when we left the party, I thought about it after I dropped you off at your home, I thought about it when I first woke up, and I was still thinking about it when you texted me about it in the morning.

Clearly, none of this came through in my hurried text response to "Did my antiracism rant scare you?"

I am sad that two people who care so much about communication and intentionality around communication stopped talking over some poorly worded, not very thoughtful texts. I wish I had just called you and explained the multitude of things I was thinking, including fear over not saying the right thing. I wish I had felt free enough to show you my flawed, human heart as you had showed me yours time & again.

I wish I had been the woman you wanted me to be instead of the white person you expected me to be.

I have more to learn. I thought we had more to learn from each other.

I know it's not your job to teach me. It's not your job to teach me how to be a considerate, justice-oriented, conscientious white person. It's my responsibility to become that person.

I'm sorry for disappointing you. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry for thinking the multitude of things I feel about you and the depth to which I care about you could forgive some thoughtless text messages. I am sorry for trying to have an important conversation with someone I deeply care about over text message.

This letter has been stuck in my throat for months. Goodbye, Anne.

hello: I'm kind of a big deal

What a strange and wonderful day this was!

Perhaps it's been clear from the blog - or perhaps some of my readers (3 and counting...) are good at reading between the lines, but yes, I've been feeling a bit blue lately.

But maybe it's more accurate to say: I've been feeling very alone. Alone in that ultimate way - like even if I'm surrounded by people, when it comes down to it I'm really, deeply, utterly alone. Born alone, die alone. That sort of debbie downer thinking. It's been coursing through my body lately, impacting every step I take. I just haven't been able to shake the feeling. Even after good days and moments of connection, I still have been coming home to wallow in my solitude. As often happens when I feel this way, I have been pushing away those I love rather than asking for their support. Trying to prove my loneliness is justified or some nonsense like that...

And then - poof! The universe, as it's been known to do, gave me the greatest shake of all.

It actually began a few months ago when a colleague of mine, I'll call him Bob cause that's his name, and I were chatting. Bob, if I'm to be honest, is one of my favorite people at work. He is a reporter, has a blog on our organization website, and I read it religiously. I start my morning with his first column of the day and usually cry at my desk reading some story he has covered. I like that he's a pretend-curmudgeon that deep down wants to believe the world, and the people in it, are good. I relate to his jaded hope...

But anyway, he and I were talking this one day a few months back. Actually, it was in the midst of my little storm cloud hoovering over me, and instead of saying "I'm well" when he asked "How are you doing?" I said: "Pretty shitty." He seemed to like my no bullshit attitude, and asked me to sit down.

We got to talking about life, mental health, work stresses...and then I happened to mention a time in my life I had actually gone on adventures, a time I had been a farmer/farmed. And he perked right up and said, "Now that's a story I'd like to hear!" And then he told me - without knowing if I can write or not - to write the story, cause he'd sure like to read it.

That was two months ago. About a day after the conversation the last line of the story came to me, which has never happened to me before, and I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. And then I proceeded to stare at that line for two months.

Until this past week when I was talking to my college BFF Adam on the phone and bemoaning my writer's block of late and he simply said, "What writer's block? It's gone. I banish it." We hung up and I spent an hour writing my story. I finished it the next morning on the bus in to work. I wrote and wrote and ended up at the last line I had written two months prior. It still felt like the right way to end the story, which seemed like a miracle in itself.

And then I shared the draft with - of all people - my middle school English teacher. She's great. She gave me good feedback which simultaneously brought me back to 8th grade and brought me forward in my adult writing.

And then I sent the story to Bob last night with a disclaimer and a thanks. Thanks, I said, for asking me to tell my story, for just asking. Thanks, I said, for letting me be honest. This, I said, is one story of many, but I hope it gets at the essence of my experience. Thanks, I told him, for helping me find the words to capture the essential part of this time in my life.

And he wrote back and said: "I'm posting this on my blog tomorrow."

Immediately I had a little flurry of butterflies in my stomach. I also thought, "Shit, I kind of overshared in that piece."

But then I held my breath and waited for it to hit the world-wide-web. On my favorite blog nonetheless! Holy shit!

And when it did, wow, did I ever get the surprise of my life. The feedback came pouring in - texts, emails, calls, facebook accolades. And then, it was mentioned on the radio by one of my favorite hosts. (To be fair, I work at a radio station and it wasn't so out of the blue, but still.) I didn't hear it myself, but plenty of friends did, and they made sure to tell me.

So here's the lesson: I am not alone. In the midst of my deepest self-pity and self-loathing, I decided to be honest about some part of my life story, to be completely vulnerable and real, and people from all over - some I know and some I don't - responded.

And no matter what it is they said specifically, what I was hearing generally is: you are not alone. 

My daily meditation for today is called "Be honest with yourself." And it says: "The way to joy, the way to the heart is tender, soft, gentle, and honest."

How true that is. Being vulnerable and honest opens us up not only to ourselves, but to all the people out there who love and applaud and cherish us, and who we love and applaud and cherish as well. 

I need to send Bob a thank you note. On it I will write very simply: The world can feel noisy and isolating. Thank you for helping me feel heard. 

a tuesday muse

I love when you read a piece of writing and wish you had written it yourself, wish you had thought of this particular turn of phrase first.

This made me feel that way.

I suppose some people were just born to be writers. The world needed to hear what they had to say.

ode to the writer

The last time I visited my childhood home I discovered that again, in my absence, my parents had taken it upon themselves to "organize" the spaces I used to occupy. What this translated to for me is that I had another line of boxes to go through to sort into one of the following categories: goodwill, trash, save.

In this assortment of trash and treasures, I discovered something truly horrifying: a folder of writing from my 10th-grade Creative Writing class. I'm conflicted here because I don't know if I should go back and put "creative" in quotes or "writing." Let's just say what I found in that folder made me blush.

I was very fond of my Creative Writing teacher, Mr. Ryan, and I shuddered to think of him alone in his office struggling to get through my poem about whales which was trying to not obviously be about a love interest but was pretty obviously about a love interest. And that was one of my better, more articulate pieces.

The folder was horrifying enough that I was compelled to write Mr. Ryan an apologetic email. We got a good laugh over the angst of high school "creative" "writing" and I thanked him for his positive feedback on some truly cringe-inducing stories. I was waiting for him to say he'd seen worse, but he just lol'd it off. Ouch.

In some part of myself I have always fancied myself a writer-and I'd like to think (or hope) my writing voice has improved since 10th-grade. However, it would be more honest to say that I have always wanted to fancy myself a writer. I have wanted to claim the title for myself and say to people, "I am a writer." But I found myself abandoning the practice again and again, and so I thought I therefore didn't have the right to call myself one.

I thought of my friends who were self-described painters, artists, runners, teachers and so on. What they all seemed to share in common, and had that I lacked, was an ability to claim their title with no hesitation. "I am an artist," one would say, showing me her newest creation. "I am a runner," another would proudly proclaim, recounting his 15-mile trek through the city.

I, on the other hand, would always insert a disclaimer. "I am...I mean, occasionally, I do write. But not like every day or anything." [really awkward laugh causing both parties discomfort]

As I toasted the new year nearly a month ago, I got to overthinking about a lot of things, including my resistance to name certain parts of myself that are actually really important parts of my identity. Parts of myself that are scarier to talk about because they make me feel more vulnerable to an audience of possible critics. I thought about the inherent insecurity in not just declaring who I am and who I want to be. I think I've been letting the fear of failure or judgment (possibly my own most of all) keep me from exploring the parts of myself that could be very nourishing, life-giving even. I felt this deserved a little attention.

Which brings me back to this goodbye ugly robe project.

A quick tangent: perhaps I am a little too fond of exploring the roots/routes of things, but admittedly I am interested in context. I find that when I start a project it's very important to define things a bit. What got me here? What are my intentions? Though the road in front of me might be a mystery, what are my hopes for it? I do like to get to the heart of the matter before focusing on the surface of things. So bear with me.

I think a big part of 1) making writing more of a practice in my life via this blog and 2) specifically documenting the figurative moments of replacing ugly robes with beautiful robes is about not not doing things out of fear or (ugh) laziness.

I was afraid of not being good enough to call myself a "writer." So I stopped writing as much. And then nearly altogether. So my refusal to claim this part of myself became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Ick. Goodbye to that behavior! Or, to be crass: F all that!! (F You Ugly Robe didn't have quite the poetic ring to it, and was a little too angry for my liking...)

So this is me lifting myself out of - I'll admit it - what was starting to feel like a lot of really depressing self-fulfilling prophecies. I imagine the specific adventures I undertake and document in this space will start to reveal what some of those hang-ups were.

For some reason this is the year I decided to get serious with myself, strangely enough, to rediscover both the serious and less serious parts of myself. Which is me saying: this is also about having FUN.

Because I'd never felt like an expert at, frankly, anything, I'd stopped myself from trying many new things. But this year I reminded myself that one way to get closer to yourself is by more honestly seeing the world and the resources around you. I know a lot of talented people. I know a lot of experts. I'm ready to see what they are willing to teach. And what I'm willing to ask to learn. Plus what I'm willing to try all by myself, even if it means making a path where there is none. Because (cheese alert) I'm also waking up to the world of resources we have within ourselves. Denying these types of adventures and just dwelling in the world of same ol' is actually quite exhausting.

I woke up on January 1st with an overwhelming feeling that I had a lot of unanswered questions and near-expired promises to myself.  What else was on the brink of extinction because I had denied it's importance for so long? I felt with certainly there were many adventures and interests brewing inside of me that were begging to be explored.  From things as mundane as: I should know how to jump my car, I should paint my bedroom and rearrange my art; to things that impact my daily life like: I want to cook more thoughtfully for myself, I want to be more active to have the option of doing races in the summer, I want to rely less on my car and more on my feet; to long-ignored goals such as: I should reteach myself Spanish, I should ask more questions about my family history, I should read more poetry and take more pictures of my world; to much more secret desires and dreams such as....

....well, there's no hurry to put all my cards on the table right away. There's plenty of time to dig into those spaces and explore what's after that dot dot dot. In other words: there are plenty more ugly robes to destroy to see what comes out of the ashes.