Trying – FibroM.E.-Awesome

Oh, and two new favorite songs. At the bottom ——>>>>

This morning I was lucky to wake up to one of my favorite scenes: a thin blanket of white glistening atop every surface as far as I could see. Smoky, colorless pearls of clouds covered the sky, simulating life within a snow globe. No one had shaken it yet. A pristine world shimmered untouched, au naturale. The flakes were still falling, and as the morning went on they would oscillate from quarter-sized to barely visible. I love snow so much. And miss it! We barely received any this year, so this felt like a nice treat, despite it hardly reaching an inch. It’d be gone by late afternoon, but still it carried with it the sentiment of an anonymous gift.

I drank my coffee and watched as River hippity hopped around on this fluffy new texture, wholly excited simply by the feeling of something new under her feet. I imagine most dogs are this way, and the ones who aren’t are usually cats. Most people around here would say “It’s about time!” as it’s been an incredibly dry and mild winter Our first *real* snow arriving February 20th!? Everything in due time, I suppose. Else we are slowly succumbing to the unnatural phenomenon of everything warming until none of this is habitable anymore. By that time maybe, Mars will step in. If not, we self destruct, which Tolle describes as “not really a problem at all.” We’re all going to go, one way or another.

I am weaker than I’d like to be—which is not weak at all, of course. Even though I had inched my way to improvement over the last week, for some reason I woke up on Tuesday to the physical news that my muscles had turned to lead over night. Life is full of such creative surprises! My upper body and arms in particular strain to do very basic things, like brush my teeth—and that’s a great way to feel even more pathetic than you look. But I know the drill: no matter how many tasks remain written, undone, on the list that I’d like to start and even, gasp, finish in the near future, will all just have to wait. And I’ll just have to wait until my strength returns, which seems to happen inevitably in time, for no good reason at all— Just the same as how it arrived.

The kind part of laundry, dishes, the spice cabinet I’ve really been wanting to organize, is that they’re all very patient, so lucky me! In reality, when I can’t do these tasks it means someone else will have to, and I can’t tell you how bothersome that is. Not bothersome, but something more adjacent to guilt. I want to be a clean and organized and helpful person, and nothing disrupts that possibility more than a body reliable purely for its unreliability. Infuriating! But those are the rules dear. You can rest, waiting, either angry or surrendered; *that* choice is always mine.

The only real way to *wait* for some level of wellness to return with any sanity is to embrace to the present. Continually try to re-renter and stay in the now, reminding myself everything is actually fine. I *wish* it were different, yes. But it’s not life and death here. It’s mostly tolerance, humility, and patience. I have to remember (again and again on days like this) that all things of priority are operating, and all secondary things will be tended to when I’m able. The pile of laundry waiting to be folded has turned into a sculpture like heap in the hallway. Interesting color combinations and whatnot. More life surprises!

This thing called surrender comes highly into play throughout times like this, but it must always be discerned and separated from the idea of giving up. Yes, the two are mutually exclusive,as one implies befriending the present moment and accepting what’s possible and not; reality as is. The other has to do more solely with will power and throwing in the towel. As anyone and everyone with ME/CFS knows, if you could will-power your way out of this thing, we’d all be healthy as an ox. As Oxen? Who decided Oxen were the emblem of health anyway? Wait, who cares.

Despite the inch of snow disappearing by evening, remnants will remain. In the shady areas small patches it will last for a week. And in the yards where children play, sad looking snowmen will slowly shrink and deform until just two twigs-once-appendages lie in the wreckage pile. Perhaps with a rotting carrot somewhere in the mix. But for now it can simply be appreciated and enjoyed. One of my true great pleasures in life is experiencing the silence of snow, falling or freshly fallen. If you’ve ever stood in freshly fallen snow, or caught it still coming down, you know exactly the tenure of silence it conveys. It’s a sacredness proximal to watching the sun rise or set, or looking out into the oceans without a spec of land in site, or into the depths of canyons thousands of feet deep.

It offers to me the feeling of how much bigger than me the world is- how the earth inhabits a living autonomy, apart from the humans who occupy it. And yet, I have to believe we’re connected on some unseeable, unknowable field. I feel small in a good way—protected, overseen. A feeling of trust emerges because nature and all its phenomena far surpass me and my little life. It knows exactly what it’s doing. Which is reassuring personally, because I certainly do not.

(Here are some polaroids I took across the day. Polaroids: Because there’s just not enough damn photos out there.

Snow gives good reason to pause and reflect. Not to mention it makes for nice scenery when you’re sick and essentially useless. I would surmise too few of us really stop and take it all in as much as we ought to. Easy to get lost in the frustration of scraping down your car windshield or having to shovel the driveway. For me it’s the audible nature of it, both the particular sounds it makes and the muteness it creates. If you close your eyes, nearly everyone can hear the crackle and crunch of footsteps in the snow. But you can also hear the insulated silence, the voices and sounds muffled by the accumulation. As it turns out, there’s a scientific reason why snow leaves such a pervasive, distinct quiet: Each snowflake acts as its own tiny sponge, as does the amassed snow on the ground. In this capacity, the snow is actually absorbing sound, leaving a sanctified hush in the place of the typical, unbuffered world and its noise. Is nature neat or what?! I DO declare.

(Two Weeks Later)

The snow is long gone, the birds are chirping, and it’s in the upper 60’s. February is over! I was starting to doubt that might never happen and I may personally enter a ground Hogs Day situation. Anyway, this weather is a tease. We’ll get hit with a few more cold snaps before the warmth really settles in. Guess what? I’m still weak. ME/CFS is a resilient disease. Rain/snow/or shine: It can and will thrive through anything! Oh well, I had a fun and more energetic weekend, which is probably why I’m paying a physical price now. So it’s back to to-do lists undone, River ansy for her walk, and all the sounds of nature crystallized and clear, animating another day of rest.

I have learned to do this, and work constantly not to forget. I’ve gotten pretty good at doing very, very little. Can you imagine that being anything to be proud of? Ridiculous. And normally, no. But for the hand millions of people and I have been dealt, it’s a teeny, tiny victory. With patience, all of what we must do, all of nature, and all we wish to achieve will unfold as time and space allow. In the meantime, we have to continue to find and adapt to who we are, no matter what transpires on the outside of us all.

Health, Happiness, Unfolding

P.S. Listen to these two songs: They’re my faves right now.

This summer I enrolled in a creative non-fiction class at Loyola in New Orleans. The class was a workshop style and the 12 of us made for quite the diverse group. We varied considerably in age, sex, race and background. Together we could have easily graced the cover of a brochure for a city’s Parks Department or a Volunteer program of some sort. But we all wanted the same thing– to write, and for two months that’s what we did. Our teacher was a classic local New Orleanian who was an active writer in the city and taught in the MFA program. He always wore short sleeved Hawaiin shirts and had a pleasantly laid back approach to teaching. After the first class nerves and politeness wore off, we submerged into a chemistry all our own.

Here's a few of us in an elevator selfie I made us take. — Here’s a few of us crammed in an elevator selfie I made us take. It was late.

We spent the summer writing and reading and critiquing each others work. I knew there was a lot to learn in our short time together, but I loved more how enjoyable and interesting our sessions were. We all shared this passion, but it was more our willingness to show up every week, to put things out there we weren’t always comfortable with, and to give and receive critcism with honesty and humility. Because of our many differences, we had very engaged discussions, and it was so refreshing to hear the voices and opinions of people who were so different than me. It sounds cheesy, but having that diversity made such a difference. When I reflect on my college classes it strikes me how homogenous they were. I was mostly surrounded by people who looked the same as me and were after the same things. This was different. Better, I think. I remember after the first class feeling so grateful that I signed up and went for it. I noticed it advertised on a coffee shop wall. So often I feel an interest for an “extracurricular” like that and tell myself one day, but I never follow through. I was glad I did this time.

The truth is that “One Day” is always “Today” right? That’s probably a bumper sticker somewhere, I hope. But there really isn’t any other day than this one, which is why one day hardly ever comes. It’s already here!

At the end of our last day of class, someone asked our teacher if he had any final advice for us before we all parted ways. He thought for a moment and then gave a subdued, thoughtful response. “Everyone is always asking, ‘When can I call myself a writer?’ or ‘What makes someone a writer or not?’ It seems so obvious, but the simple truth is that a writer is anyone who actually just sits down and takes the time to write. Who works away at his desk and grinds it out, again and again and again. It really is about just making yourself write, day after day, which is very hard to do.” I remember thinking how simple but powerful an answer that was. So many people in the community, including me, ask that question, and so few people actually commit to the time and vulnerability and work it takes to create meaningful and honest writing. I think sometimes the idea of things is more appealing than the reality, which is always far less romantic.

I’ve been reflecting on his answer more recently as I’ve committed myself to a writing project that constantly challenges me. It boggles my mind that each morning when I sit down at the computer, I feel the same fear that I felt yesterday. I feel an uncertainty that’s totally unnerving. It makes me see and think of a thousand other things to do, besides writing my inside out. I see dust and think that I should dust. I realize a cluttered desk is no place to write so I clean that out first. I see paper and think I’ll make a list of other things to do, then cross each one off, then sit down and get to work. I check my email just to make sure there aren’t other things I could or should be doing. God forbid I enter the world of Facebook or Twitter or the black hole of the webosphere, never to be seen again. It’s crazy how much time I spend doing other things, with a fantasy in mind that once they’re complete, then I can write. It’s all a facade. It’s another One Day. There’s no perfect place to write, no ideal time, and no shortage of other things to do instead. I thought that once I did this long enough, I’d just wake up and start typing until nighttime and then do it again the next day. That I would overcome the fear once and for all. Not so.

Every day I feel a resistance to do the thing I love and deeply believe in. It’s strange and challenging and completely frustrating. It sounds like such a psychological cliche, but apparently this is a common defense mechanism that most people confront. If you don’t actually try and put stuff out there, you don’t run the risk of failure. Or rejection. In effect it’s just safer not to try. So we become skilled at finding ways not to. But it’s also boring and cowardly to give into it so I try and fight it all the time. Sometimes the fear wins and I don’t try that day. I alphabetize my medicine cabinet instead.

The flip side is, when I go too long without writing I feel like that kink in a hose running on high pressure. I get irritable and uneasy, like I’m going to POP at any moment. I can almost feel my insides stirring and expanding and the answer is always to let them out through words. It reminds me of something Marc Nepo wrote: “Talent is energy waiting to be released through an honest involvement in life.” True dat. The time before I write and the act of sitting down to write can be unpleasant and is usually really hard. But the feeling after I’ve written tells me that it’s what I’m supposed to do. I always feel better once I’ve done it, and sometimes if I’ve done it well, other people feel better too.

Whenever I watch really successful people on TV or listen to them speak, it always occurs to me that they got to where they are because at some point in their lives, they decided to try. And they too faced risk. But that’s always how big things begin. I used to think successful people were that way because fate had it in store for them. I thought they were chosen, as though success picked its people like teams in PE class. Now I realize truly successful people are all very different, but are triumphant in their aspirations because they’re true to their gifts and trust themselves enough to put it out there. They risk failure, but they get a chance at changing things, or going big, or living out their dreams. And how many of us are living out our dreams?! Even if they failed, they’d at least have tried, and there is success and respect in that alone. Some of my best stories and biggest revelations came from me failing first. Did you know I auditioned at Julliard? No, because I failed. But it’s also how I learned I wanted to write instead of act. Plus it makes a for a funny story now.

Our writing teacher told the class he had written two novels but so far no publishers had signed on to them yet. I was really impressed hearing that. I think actually having sat down and written a complete novel, start to finish, is a huge accomplishment. It takes such dedication and time and work, and he had written two. Even if they never get published, having two completed novels under your belt is awesome. Especially because writing is such a lonely thing– no one is really encouraging you or congratulating you until the work is finished. And you always run the risk that at the end of your hard work, it won’t be well received. I guess that’s the vulnerable part we all face any time we embark on an endeavor. But I don’t always think it’s about the finished product anyway. It’s more that we’ve dedicated ourselves completely to something, worked hard at it and saw it through to its end.

It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But by all means, try something.
-FDR

Health, Happiness, and Try Try Try Again.