Do you despair over the things that make you happy?
I do. This is mostly because I’m an idiot.
There’s a little bit of maternal sense in there. (Thanks, Jane.) I mean, I wouldn’t agonize over something that didn’t matter to me, and I’m (finally) mature enough to make That Which Makes Me Happy a main focus of my life and my energy.
Except, of course, money. Universe, we’re still in a fight about that whole “currency” bullshit. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.
But I kill myself, deep in my cold, little heart, about love and writing and music and food and will I ever be able to do any of them right? And does that matter? And surely it must, because otherwise why would anyone of any sense whatsoever spend so much time so freaked out?
And with that logic leap we understand exactly how it is I came to be an idiot.
And now for a break in the regularly scheduled navel-gazing:
I thought maybe it might could perhaps be fair or kind (or inane?) or useful (or something) to tell you what happened and where I went and what I did.
During the months of May, June, July and August of the year of our lord (whose?) two thousand eleven, I:
- Taught young chilrens between the ages of three and eleven music all day every day at a camp in this fair city of HotFuckingLanta;
- Learned what it is like to be in pain and still function, not (or at least rarely) giving into the indulgence of suffering;
- Filled my days with the worries of babes (and the silencing of my ovaries) and my nights with laughter and tears (yes, always tears);
- Remembered that “holy” is how you treat someone else and “god” is what it looks like when you love;
- Discovered that Marietta’s full of dumb people who play trivia with Jesus and Dunwoody’s downright cutthroat;
- Learned that “leaning” means a lot more than Old Noah Webster ever intended and leads to things like heart-shaped earrings and late-night phone calls;
- Weaned myself off narcotics (mostly) and developed a healthy Benadryl habit;
- Bought a new toothbrush to set beside a new sink, where there’s a “my” side of the bed and a jug of my favorite coffee creamer (such an embarrassing vice!);
- Decided I might actually be good at that whole teaching thing and found people who agree to write me checks and ask me for curricula;
- Looked at my hands and realized just how much I like how they look when they’re entwined in someone else’s;
- Found a someone else; and
- Maybe – just maybe, might could maybe – have fallen in love.
Skipping right over that and hoping with all I’ve got it won’t terrify him that I wrote that here first, let us focus our attentions back to the lint in my proverbial belly button and analyze why I – the most aggressively forthright person I’ve ever known in any capacity – might be too anxious to say “love” out loud, but willing to cavalierly announce it here, in a space I feel I no longer inhabit comfortably, to all and sundry.
We know I’m not afraid of hearing my own voice. Ahem.
And we know I’m strong in my conviction that that which is felt must be shared.
The royal we, of course.
And – VOICE CHANGE! WOOT! – I’m pretty sure I could stand it if he didn’t say it back. After all, I know what I’m talking about and he might not.
Mine is a place of power, and yet.
Let me agonize some more, fair gallery! What if I’m bad at this? At love?
I think it might be what I do best – I love love. Lord, how I love it. The idea, the music, the smells, the tastes, the schtick and the expectations and the ridiculous standards we hold ourselves to!
But what if I’m no good? Who’ll tell me? How will I learn? Is it enough? Am I?
Is the way to your heart through your navel?
