Feel Good Inc.

I will admit that yesterday I looked at my book like some intimidating door to this huge expanse that I had to build all myself; like all the parts to a house laying on the property but no blueprints except the ones in your head.

Then I wrote my blog post.  By the time I finished, it didn't feel so intimidating. It suddenly felt more welcoming.

Okay, I thought. I can ease into this.  And suddenly, boom! A chapter and a half edited without any sweat, blood, or tears.  Can this actually occur? And can it occur twice in a row?

That I cannot tell you, but I can tell you that it has been leaning heavier in my mind since yesterday.  And now I feel I have been waiting all day to get to this point.  Maybe that's why I did all the dishes, folded all the clothes, took the kiddos to the library, went grocery shopping, did all the laundry, and made dinner.  Just so I could say, I've done enough for all of you, now leave me to it. I've got work to do.

And here I am, once again at the precipice, ready to dip into my adventure once more.  The pool is calm, undisturbed and so beautiful in this light.  It is as I am the first to disturb such water, and I feel that it has invited only me into its depths.

Into its depths, I willingly go. For it will whisper stories no other can tell. And I am ready to hear.

A Rusty Squeezebox

Reach up and take it.  Sometimes writing feels just out of your grasp, currently like my son's Mickey Mouse balloon.  The string is just an inch outside your grasp, even on your tippy toes.  But you try anyway.  Because that is what you want, what your entire being desperately desires.  Life, however, has other things in mind for the time being.

There it sits, waiting like the most loyal of all creatures.  It will be there, exactly as it was left.  The only regret will be time which inevitably takes your memory and carves it into a dull thing that seems shapeless.  Once the opportunity presents itself, we grasp at it and it is ours to carve once more into the sharp and visceral image that we must re-conjure.

It is much easier said than done.

One thing I can say about time and the space between the actual writing.  You can come to know your story in far more sharp detail than you ever thought.  The downfall, inevitably, is the time you take to assess your own ability at it.  And there lies our imperfection and self doubt, and that will be the death of your world if you allow it to be overtaken by such demons.

Here I sit next to my draft, which I have finally finished, by the way.  And here I sit writing on this blog of all places, rather than in my draft.

Why in all that is holy am I writing in here and not there? Have you ever been intimidated by yourself? Have you ever been intimidated by your own creation? This is my battle now.

I let my music box unwind itself and the music has long since played. And now I come back.  My story is sharp in my mind, but the work of the next draft is new territory.  To quote Samwise Gamgee, "If I take one more step, it will be the furthest from home, I've ever been."

I've taken that step, and now I take another and another, and I feel so much further away than before.  I guess I need to remember what Frodo replied, quoting Bilbo, "It's a dangerous road, Frodo, going out your door.  And if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

I guess it's time to wind up my music box and see what plays now and what wondrous things I learn from it.

Adventure is a wondrous world that few are brave enough to experience.

A few good reasons to read. Courtesy of James Howe, an author who has some of the most entertaining reads for littles.

The Dancer

It is time to fear yourself when you no longer fear the darkness.

The room was quiet and for the first time in hours, I was finally alone.  They had taken my phone when I came, so I had nothing but the music in my head.  It had been far too long since I had practiced this dance.  Yet for some reason, it kept coming back to me.  At first, the steps gently lapped at my memories, but slowly the tide came in upon the entire routine and over the course of several days, it became almost impossible to resist.  

I found my head and my arms absently finding their marks and drifting beautifully along the arcs of movement.  I would hastily stop for fear of losing the privacy of such a dance until I could be alone.  Of course, this happened to be at a juncture that disallowed me any true privacy. Until this moment.

In the late sunning of the western wing, I discovered the unused room, just a few doors down from where I slept.  In that moment, I had made the silent promise to allow myself to fully undulate and blossom by the moonbeams now shining in and reflecting faintly in the gleam of the tables and metal-backed chairs. 

Moving into first position, then smoothly into second, I then went to my toes, and stood waiting for the moment of the music to begin.  Like an overborne levee, the music broke.  My left foot swept en pointe in a slow steady arc scarcely above the surface of the disinfected laminate. 

I felt like a long-forgotten instrument; wheezy and sadly out-of-tune.  My joints ached and creaked but warmed as the music took my soul and molded it into the refined dancer I once was. 

It was a somber silhouette of the choreography I once knew. Taking an angel by the wings, Sia sang words into my mind that felt hopeful.  But in the timbre of the melody, true grief and sorrow was profound. It was in that moment, in that dance for the moon alone that I discovered it was my final plea to live, to feel, to be.  The song was not a hope, it was desperation.

My body swayed right to left, my arms moving up and down like slow ribbons unfurling their beauty.  My feet were up on my toes and back bracing the floor for support in my quickening spins back up onto my toes.  It was a sweet and intoxicating song, drawing in my body and drawing out my torment-

And there was clapping behind me.

I froze and dared not move. I could only think of what I knew in movies, would they lock me in a silent room with padding, drug me, hold me down in a bed? I had little experience with these types of places.  Was this a hospital technically? They called it a rehabilitation center, but I wasn’t on drugs or alcohol or anything such as that.  I was just- what was I? Depressed?

That sounds so trivial and not at all like a problem.  The very word downplayed everything in my head. But I guess, yes, that is what you would say.  At least until they had a better word for it.

The clapping finally slowed and stopped as I put my arms slowly down. I was vulnerable. This dance was not for you, I thought. It was for my mind. To quiet it down. No one was supposed to know or see.

I turned to the door. A nurse stood at the door. She had a smile on her face. Smiles seemed so fake. I knew they weren’t. Rationality told me that. But my mind screamed the fake mockery of it.

I hated myself and I did not like her. Because she had stolen this from me.  I could never attempt it again. I was finished. She finished me.

“You dance?” she asked simply.

I hesitated. I didn’t want to chat. I didn’t want to converse. And yes or no was not sufficient. I grunted, “Used to.”

“Well, it’s not lost on you,” she smiled again.

I shrugged now looking at the floor, wishing I was back in my shared room with six other beds, two others of which were occupied.

Her sweet tone slid into a more business-like tone, “As beautiful as that was, you are not allowed out of your room after hours, except to use the restroom.”

I gave a half-nod and immediately headed back to bed, passing her without much of a look.  She will always know, my thoughts heavily admitted.

Back in bed barely a minute past, my mind wavered and crumbled at the thought I had been found out.  She will forever know this. And now I am out. No longer within my small bottled-up world.  She has broken me. 

Curling up into the smallest ball I could manage, I attempted to stop anything else from leaking out.  The battle was a miserable failure.

End of Part I