I’ve been meaning to write.
I’ve been meaning to write about pain and loss and grief and the importance of finding small joys. I’ve been meaning to write about uncertainty and inevitability, the uncomfortable position of navigating a friend’s mourning process in hopes of offering solace and support, and the even more difficult conversations you have with people for whom hope is not an option, but neither is defeat.
I’ve been meaning to write about my own anxiety and the endless one-note symphony of my creative failure. I’ve been meaning to write about the hard, dull thud in one’s soul when, just for a moment, you catch of glimpse of your place in the universe. I’ve been meaning to write about fear – fear of having traveled the wrong path for too long, the fear of aging and the unspoken powers of youth. I’ve been meaning to write about the inequities of physical beauty, and raw, tangible talent versus much-practiced, lesser abilities.
But when I sit down to arrange any of this in a reasonable, logical fashion I get stuck on how unreasonable and illogical it all is. And I feel helpless. I cannot give myself the attributes I do not possess and I cannot change the circumstances of those I see around me. And really, they aren’t in the same realm are they? Absolute loss and misguided expectations are two different aspects of the hard parts of life.
And so I haven’t written at all because I don’t know what to say.
I tell myself to keep seeking out the small joys – dancing in the living room with my kids, singing in the car, enjoying that first cup of coffee in the morning. I tell myself that as long as I’m alive and healthy with a roof over my head I can still work out the feelings of inadequacy and failure. I tell myself that the time to save face and hold back is over. There’s nothing to save; let people look and laugh or look and admire or ignore it all. But there really is nothing to be saved for later.
Give it all now. Give it all you’ve got.