It's a Terrible Thing, But Not Really

If I were to wait until I had something of value to say, I'd do what I've done for the past couple of months...indefinitely. And that is...I wouldn't blog at all. I know every writer in the world feels this way at some point. That gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach that not only eats at you, but talks to you between bites. "You really have nothing to say." "Why do you think anyone would care to read paragraphs of nothingness?" "You're not much of a writer, so why are you wasting your time with this?"

And then after days and weeks of "hearing" those same things repeated in a myriad of different internal dialogues, eventually I give in and just start typing something. See, the thing that keeps me from blogging is probably the fact that I write every single day. I just don't blog every day.

I'm a member of multiple forums and I keep a journal, although a bit more sporadically than my forum participation. But those forms of writing really satisfy most of my communication desires. I also struggle a bit with the blogging idea, because most of the people I myself enjoy reading are brilliant or funny, or brilliant AND funny, and I don't consider myself to be either of those things. A lot of the bloggers I enjoy reading are also what is generally referred to as "Mommy Bloggers," and I don't entirely qualify for that category being that my children are grown and in their 20s.

My interests, don't seem to be shared with very many other people my age. For instance, I'm big big into PC gaming. Over the past couple of months I have been playing Everquest II again, after being away from it for about a year. I've also played Dragon Age: Origins, Torchlight, and participated in various other beta tests and trials for other games, both role-playing games and MMOs of assorted flavors. See....I've lost most anyone reading this already. I guess the one thing I could mention that is pretty much a household word by now is that I also just left World of Warcraft after having played for five years. Yeah....at least some people have heard of THAT one.

So when it comes time to blog/write outside of my comfort zones of game forums, rant forums, and journaling....I tend to choke. My problem is that I don't really want to write "for myself." If I was writing just for myself, then my blog would become my journal, and there would be no point in keeping them separate. There would also be no point in anyone ever reading it. My journal makes very little sense unless you're inside of my head. Actually....I'M inside of my head and I don't always understand it when I go back to read it days later, so....it would be silly to expect anyone else to decipher it.

I'm feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I have nothing pertinent to say...sometimes for months at a time. On the other hand, if you don't write for your blog regularly, you lose readers even if you only have ten. Oh wait...now I have eight. And of those eight, probably six are just kind-hearted people who don't want me to feel alone. You guys...are the bomb. :)

I would love to be a writer of the same caliber and style as Jenny, The Bloggess. I would love more than anything to make people LAUGH. Laughter is so healthy, so healing, so freeing. But I'm not always funny. Sometimes I am just downright boring. And I have to wonder what kind of person is able to write something funny on a regular basis that makes people just roll with laughter.

Anyhow....this is an update, weak as it may be. And I would like to say I'm willing to make a commitment to blogging, but I don't like letting anyone down. I don't like letting myself down either. I haven't kept up reading the blogs I love. I haven't kept up writing here. I'm struggling to keep up with even simple daily things right now like laundry. It's just one of the times of life. But I will TRY to do better. I will TRY to be funnier. I will TRY to post more often. I will TRY to not lose my mind worrying about trying to do those things.

Right now....all I want is some nachos.

Giving Voice: The High Calling of Teaching

Today my 19 year old son and I got into a conversation about college and learning,  which ultimately led to a conversation about "giving voice." He is the youngest of our three children, none of which I can easily refer to as "children" any longer, and the only one who is still at home. We often converse about things as simple as what's for dinner, and as complex as philosophy.

During our conversation, I was recounting being in high school and remembering that gnawing question that always plagued me, as to what possible purpose classes like English and Algebra could ever serve, particularly in my own personal life. English, where we "diagramed" sentences, or algebra where we seemed to intentionally make numbers painfully mysterious, both were an enigmatic exercise in apparent frivolity to me. At least that's what I thought at the time.

Image by Cornelia Kopp

Then one day I became a mother, and both learning and teaching began to mean much, much more. I wanted my son to be able to express himself, so I taught him to talk. I wanted him to be able to fully communicate and interact with the world around him, so I taught him to listen. I wanted him to be able to play that guitar he loved so much, or to be the best possible athlete he could be...if that is what he wanted. How do we go about becoming the people we become?

Every human being has within them the potential for greatness. And by greatness I simply mean the most robust expression of who we uniquely are in the universe. But to express that...we must have a voice. I don't necessarily mean a literal vocal output of sound, but rather a vehicle of self-expression...the TOOLS to express.

My son and I were talking about learning scales in music class. He has so much beautiful music inside of him. He hears it in his mind and heart. But to be able to express it, he's had to learn the tools that give his creativity a VOICE.

As a writer...what if I had never learned, for instance, the alphabet, or how to read, or how to type, or how to make a complete sentence? (Yes, I know...sometimes I still struggle with that last one, and the tool called "grammar," is not always at home in my tool belt, I'll admit.) But what if I had never learned to spell or to write?  I could be full of amazing stories and imaginative prose and verse, but without a VOICE...how would those things come forth?

And this brought us back to the topic of teaching. He wants to be a teacher. He wants to teach grade school music. And I am delighted with this, as you can imagine. Because when it's all boiled down to the most organic truth of the matter....teachers....ALL teachers, not just academics...give others VOICE. Without the tools, the basics, the foundation, the "technical aspects" of any given skill or study, whether it be the English language, or the notes and keys and scales on a piano...there is no VOICE with which to express oneself.

One of the tragedies of our society, is that there are very likely great authors, brilliant painters and sculptors, and inspired musicians trapped within their own limitations. Authors that have never learned to read and write, musicians that have never learned to play an instrument, painters that have never held a paintbrush and wouldn't know the difference between acrylics and oils...sculptors that have never once touched wet clay or whittled even a toothpick. If you don't have the tools...you either have no voice, or your voice is very dampened by it's limitations. Teachers give...voice. The molding and shaping and unique sound of each voice, comes from within. But the creator must have the tools to make themselves "heard."

It's a quirky odd thing about me that I have always felt deeply saddened when anyone dies. I mean ANYONE. Even when I was very young I remember watching the news and feeling acutely grieved by the passing of someone in an automobile accident or when someone left this earth due to a terminal illness, or any other mode of "exit." And I consciously remember thinking, as a young teen...all of the beauty inside that human being, the beauty that was unique to their experiences in life...all...gone. What they might have written, what they might have said, or sang, or painted, or built...all that they would have become...has been taken from us. We may have been left some of their creativity...if they had a voice...but some of them did not. Some musician died without ever writing a song. Some writer passed from this earth without ever penning that haunting poem. Some painter took their leave without gracing a canvas with mesmerizing color and form. And it is a great and irretrievable loss.

So when we have the opportunity to learn something new, or the opportunity to teach something to another soul that is open and hungry, maybe , just maybe...that should make our hearts pound with passion, whether we are a mother teaching our son the alphabet, a father teaching his daughter how to whittle a working whistle, or an elementary school teacher patiently explaining how to construct a sentence, or just a good friend...sitting down to teach their friend their first guitar chords. For all of our voices together make up a tremendous, amazing symphony. Every voice is unique. Every voice matters. One of the most enduring things you can give another human being...is voice.

Meet the Writer: Unedited, Transparent, and Utterly Flawed

Alone I sit. A cup of hot tea, cigarette lit, resting in an ashtray, my desk cluttered with papers, bills, pens...my mind cluttered with unforgiving thoughts toward myself for accomplishing nothing, both now and in my past. I don't suppose I can exactly say that I accomplished "nothing," but rather nothing of any consequence in fulfilling the longing in my soul to create something that is wholly me...that reflects my soul, my passion.

I'm 46. I recognize that this is mid-life crisis mode for me. I'm quite sure that it's a common theme of thought for many my age. Yet knowing I'm not alone in my grief and yearning...sure isn't giving me much comfort.

Over the past few months I have traipsed through a myriad of "interests" trying to find something to DO that will either make money for me and my family (god knows Sharon would probably love to have more help supporting us), or...at the very least...to find something to do that will squelch this incessant gnawing need in my soul to express itself somehow. I have an HD camcorder, software for making videos, a new classical guitar, a tiny keyboard, my journal here, books stacked around the room...maybe I thought just SEEING all of this stuff would inspire me. Sharon is an angel to tolerate me. No...I mean REALLY.

I can't even call this "tortured artist syndrome" because I have not BEEN an "artist" for so long now, that I can't even conjure up a simple creation to share with my CATS, let alone another human being. So I'll just be honest and call it mid-life crisis that is teetering on depression. Yes...I suppose if I have to admit it...I've probably been manic, clamouring for things, running after every idea as though it were some fairytale salvation of sorts, never accomplishing anything real in the process, and driving everyone around me insane. I feel as if I don't fit in the world in any useful way any more. I've always had an undercurrent of that feeling throughout the entirety of my life, but now...it's like a ravenous scavenger...it perches on my shoulder waiting for the next piece of dead flesh to drop.

It's ugly, it's mean, it's scary...and it's where I am right now.

You can't write about anything hopeful when you're feeling this way. Music soothes me, but I can't hide in it long enough to make everything else I feel go away for more than the length of time the music is playing. And if I take my focus off the songs...the wolf comes back to devour any hope that I've gained. I feel trapped. I'm caged within my own soul, my own body, and in this apartment. And the latter...is by choice. I don't WANT to go outside. I don't want to be out there and see, under a looking glass...amplified...how useless I really am compared to every other single person that is living out there and really LIVING.

I have no self-discipline. I am lazy. And lazy people just don't accomplish much. These are the "sins" that will crush my dreams. I'm not even sure I know what my dreams are anymore. Well okay...that's not entirely true. I want to WRITE. But I want to write something someone will READ and gain something FROM. I don't want to just sit here and endlessly type rubbish into a machine that has no response to me either negative or positive.

I want to write something that will come to LIFE and have a being of it's OWN. I want to GIVE BIRTH. Maybe...just maybe...what I am going through is a creative pregnancy. I certainly FEEL moody, pained, disturbed, sick....yup, I feel pregnant.

The greatest problem with all of this, for me, is that I don't feel I have a lot of TIME. I don't feel I have the luxury of seemingly endless years, the way I felt when I was oh...15. Now the clock is ticking and I don't work well under pressure. At least that's been my experience in the past. Pressure tends to paralyze me, and that...that...is what I'm feeling, in part.

Maybe after this M.R.I. on Monday...maybe this won't be so intense. I've not told anyone...not a soul...but I have some fear about the M.R.I. and that fear is that I may have something very very wrong with me. Oh sure...that's probably grossly melodramatic. I don't know. But many things have run through my mind. Things like bone cancer, leukemia, a tumor somewhere....so now I stop to light another cigarette. Maybe I've always had a secret death wish...a sort of under-stated suicidal nature somewhere within. A lot of my life would tend to appear confirming of that diagnosis. But my conscious mind...is not ready to die. And every fiber of who I am inside...resists that idea.

It's funny to me, that every time I am in crisis mode of any sort in my life...I always gravitate back to the music and poetry of Stevie Nicks. It's like...somewhere in what she writes...I find ME...that part of me that longs, that yearns, that dreams, that WANTS to reach for me. And yet that girl...that young girl...she's buried so deep within me that I can't REACH her anymore. I feel myself stretching my arms to her and trying desperately to grab hold of her hands, but she won't reach BACK to me. She just sits there...a semi-blank stare on her face. The only emotion I see there is sorrow, and she's looking sadly at me as though I have betrayed her and she no longer trusts me. I promised her so many things throughout the course of our life, and I never made good on the promises. And now...she resents me, a little, and grieves...a lot. And she is far too fearful of more heartache to reach back to me. But she sits and listens to Stevie too. And I hear her humming...she's still hungry...she still wants more, but she doesn't trust ME to feed her.

Amazing that I can write so much about so little. I talk the same way. I can ramble on endlessly about things that don't matter in the least. Well...all of this matters, but not to anyone but me. And to try to explain these feelings to Sharon or someone that is just doing what they have to do to SURVIVE another day at work...just makes them hate me for having the time to even THINK about this kind of shit. I mean...Sharon doesn't have TIME to sit and debate about what she should "do with the rest of her life." She's busy supporting our family and doing those needful things that are really TRULY important. Oh sure...they might not leave a lasting impression on the "rest of the world," but they leave a lasting impression on me and Darren. Her gift is giving US life. And that...that's something vital and important. And even though it might not seem like much to her...it's a whole whole lot to me. Perhaps I have a lot more to learn from her about being important...to few...being just as vital as being important to many.

You know, a few years back, there was a class reunion for my graduating high school class. I didn't go. I didn't go because I didn't want to answer the question, "So what do you DO?" I didn't really want to hear the answers from my classmates either, when someone asked THEM that. But now...it's not so much that I care what OTHER people think of what I "do," but that it's become a painful wound to me. I don't "do" anything. I don't even think that journaling can allow me to claim to be a writer. I haven't "given anything" to the world. I haven't contributed in some important way. Oh sure, I raised a son to the ripe old age of 13. I wasn't a great mother. I was passable, but it wasn't a talent, that's for sure. And I made many mistakes with him...of course, we all do, with our children. But outside of that...I have really done nothing.

So here I sit...typing away...longing to "be a writer," and indeed "writing," but unfulfilled, because I want my writing to MATTER. I want SOMETHING I do to matter. If I leave this world without having written whatever it is that I am here to write...then I have failed. And I feel ever so close to that becoming a reality. And I am scared.

You know, I would like to be able to write a very raw, poignant account of a life that has been scarred by drug abuse, moved by the beauty of the world, and motivated by the desire to touch others in a meaningful way, but that little girl...she won't reach back...she refuses, because I have let her down too many times before and without her...I cannot connect the dots. I cannot paint the landscapes. I cannot sing the songs, write the poems, I cannot claw my way up out of this well without her, and I cannot stay here, for we shall both drown.

I don't know where the story starts. I don't know where it ends. I don't even know what the ligaments are that connect the structure of the body. The ligaments, fibers, cells, that make up this life...are disconnected...scattered, broken...a kaleidoscope of tortured images. My memories are fractured. The fog of past drug abuse has made ordering the visions in my mind near to impossible. I can't remember when and where so MANY things happened. Details are fuzzy, emotions are numbed. And through all the recent past years that I have NOT been illegally drugged, I have been LEGALLY drugged because of this illness, and it has not rendered my memory any better, but rather it seems to have made it so so much worse. I'm actually not sure that the medications haven't done FAR more damage to me than all the years of other crap. No one to blame for any of that though...no one but me.

I suppose that I could put all of my writing, no matter how trite and unimportant, on my blogs and just call it good. Maybe once every few months someone will accidentally happen by and read it. If I'm very very lucky, perhaps they'll leave a comment and I'll know that at least someone READ what I wrote. But the dreams of fame (no matter how small the "fame")...yes, I suppose that's what they are...or something akin to that, anyway...those dreams are probably just childish fantasies and I have to be honest with myself...they will probably never come to fruition.

I am ONE middle-aged homemaker in a world full of ridiculously talented people who are able to tell THEIR stories in much more polished and powerful ways, and I cannot compete in that realm. I am so not in their league. I am one voice in a sea of voices, and the entire world will go on when I pass, as if I never was, and there is not a damn thing that I can do about that. My family...or what is left of them then...they will notice my absence. But by and large, I will pass from this world without fanfare, without a blink, without anyone except them, ever knowing what I felt, what I experienced, what I thought, what I dreamed, what I believed, and how amazing and beautiful life really was...to me. That is just the inescapable truth for all but the tiniest percentage of people on this planet. And it is a desperately sad truth...for us all. Because today...today...someone wonderful, and beautiful, and full of wisdom and truth that would heal many hearts...will die. And their story will never be heard, will never be known, and the beauty of all that they learned in their life will be lost. And we ALL will lose just a little something because of that, but...we won't even know we lost it.

And perhaps that is why, people like Stevie, are so loved and revered. Because somewhere inside all of us...we know the truth. We know that we will pass from this life without ever being able to tell our stories. So we look to Stevie, and others, to tell them FOR us. And when we hear them sing, see their paintings, or read their words, and RELATE to them...perhaps we feel that somehow, in some way...someone heard at least a part of US in that, and that we were, if even for a moment, understood.

In my mind...I am like Stevie...twirling across that stage, draped in chiffon and lace, the free spirit, abandoning my fears, pouring my heart out, touching thousands of people, letting them know that they are LOVED...that someone cares deeply for them...singing their stories...telling the world that THEY matter. Has anyone ever written anything for you? Yes...someone has. And I hear her singing. She touches my bruised and battered heart with the gentleness of butterfly's wing, and in that touch...I begin to heal. And that will probably have to be enough...unless...

I can I pick up the torch...not as a singer, but as a writer, and use the gift that God has given ME...to do the same. Can some of us pay it forward, can some of us jump into that flowing river of truth, and ride it with sincerity of purpose, taking others into that warm ocean tide of healing as we go? Can I....?

-------------------------------------------------------------

*This entry gets to the HEART of why I want to write. It may sound grandiose and delusional (and perhaps it is), but I want to be a voice for others that have no voice. The ordinary, the housewife, the guy that's working 9 to 5 and has so much to say, but isn't eloquent with words, the teenager reeling from the heartache of that lost first love, the drug addict gripped in addiction, running from pain, because her heart is so sensitive that it gets crushed under the weight of this life...the one that longs to be free, but doesn't know how to cry anymore. This...this is my passion. And it's an enormous weighty thing, and I don't know where to begin...but it's all in the world that I want outside of my family. I want to paint, with words, the beauty of our souls...all of our souls. We are all survivors, artists, creators...every one of us. It's just that many of our songs go unsung, our words go unspoken, our stories go untold.*

-------------------------------------------------------------

Powered by ScribeFire.

When it's Time to Start Over

My son, Levi, has been such a catalyst in my life so very many times, and I'm quite sure that he doesn't know that little tidbit of information. It might be best if that stays our little secret. I wouldn't want him to have any more "dirt" on his momma. Generally, parents are teachers, and I do think that I taught my son a few things, although probably not always good things. At the same time, I think we often forget how much we can learn from our children. Levi had a rough beginning to his year, and it got me to thinking about actions, consequences, and being pro-active rather than just letting life happen to you.

I haven't been active at blogging for quite some time now. It's not that my life was without things to blog about, it's just that my head has not been in the blogosphere enough to read or write. I've barely been able to simply think. But life has seasons, and it's been a long winter. In the past my blog entries have been predominantly about things that have inspired or angered me. They were topics that often caused me to reflect on my life, my actions, and reactions. This is where the "ferocious dust bunnies" come into play.

Dust bunnies. We've all had them. They seem innocuous enough, particularly when they're not blatantly obvious and they're just hiding somewhere under the bed. They're easy to forget about...well...at least for me. Anyone that knows me very well knows that I'm not the tidiest of people. I like housecleaning almost as much as I like a root canal....almost. Oh, don't get me wrong. I love the end result. I just don't love the process. But cleaning, both houses and lives, is a needful thing, and eventually I'll end up having to suck it up and just do it (on both fronts).

Dust bunnies are a funny thing. As a metaphor, they're both a bit gross, and a bit cute. I guess it depends on how you look at them. Real dust bunnies (you know, the kind that actually make homes under your literal bed) can be quite filthy. They can have mites and other non-cute things in them. Ewwww. On the other hand, someone somewhere along the way called them "bunnies" because they can resemble fluffy little...well...bunnies. And there's nothing about a bunny that isn't pretty goshdern cute. I should know, I used to have five Holland Lop rabbits as pets. My house was FULL of bunnies back then (both the dusty kind, and the furry, floppy-earred kind).

My blog has developed the not so cute kind of virtual dust bunnies. I know this because after this long "winter" I came back and "looked under the bed." It's time to sweep them out and start over. So what does that mean for this weblog? It means there's going to be a lot more going on here! It means that I've re-discovered and re-connected with purpose and meaning, and it means that I want to be part of something bigger than myself, a community of dedicated writers. It means I'm making a commitment to deal with dust bunnies, both the "ewww gross" kind and the cute and cuddly caricature kind. I hope you'll join in.

Simplicity and Survival

Today as I sat at my computer, I was plagued with something that was either depressing or motivating, or maybe a little bit of both. I really want to leave this world having contributed something memorable. I want to leave an imprint on the lives that I have touched....something impacting for good....something that will affect people in a lasting, warm, and loving way.

If I was to make that statement to someone that knows me well, say my family, or close friends, they would say, "Lori, you've already done that. You have a wonderful son...." and I DO! "You have a beautiful family that loves you, and you have done so many unique and unusual things. You've had an interesting and adventurous life." And I HAVE! However.....from the time I was maybe 12 years old, I have always wanted to write. I don't know....to create and leave something somehow tangible, something that stirs others' hearts and minds. It seems very important to me. The dilemma is....I have no earthly idea how to do that or where to begin.

So I sit and blink, yes....blink....at my empty blog posting page, wondering what I have to contribute to this online world of which I am a part. And with all of the life experiences I have had, with the talents that I have for communication and the love that I have for writing, I STILL cannot seem to compose a cohesive plan for how to accomplish this one important goal of mine.

There are so many many blogs. The personal/diary type blogs are so ridiculously numerous and they are probably the least read of all blogs. And yet if you have something to share that others can embrace and relate to, they can be so very vital to SOMEONE who reads them, even if only one person.

My sixth grade teacher was a marvelous woman. I remember her telling our class that you should write about something that you know well. You'd think at the age of 43, I would surely know SOMETHING well. I have to chuckle at the notion that her advice seems less helpful today than it was when I was younger and thought I knew a lot about many things. It seems the older I get, the less confident I am that I know much of anything. I'm more in tune with the truth that all of life is a classroom and that we are endlessly learning, and the older I get, the more quick I am to proclaim my lack of knowledge!

So what do I have to share? I haven't actively written in a long time. I used to write poetry, some of which was published in an American anthology. I used to write music and play acoustic guitar and had such a passion for that. Over the years of raising my son and working, that too faded into a blurry and now distant past. It seems that somehow over the past 20 years, I lost.....me. I'm not too sure of who I am anymore. I am unsure of my talents, my joys, my ideas. I feel so tentative and timid. Yet I know that deep inside....I am still there.

Perhaps the most vital thing that I have to share is the story of how I survived the many "adventures," as my mother kindly calls them, of my life. I think using the word "adventures" is probably my family's way of dealing with the myriad of foolish things I have done. Because looking back....they seem more like a symphony of tragedies and miracles than an "adventure." I have survived meth addiction, abusive relationships, mental illness, two failed marriages, assorted spiritual confusions and commitments, including being a vegetarian "enlightened" by metaphysics, a born again fundamentalist Southern Baptist "enlightened" by fear, a holy roller charismatic Christian devotee to evangelism and the gifts of the Holy Spirit enlightened by "deliverance" from drug addiction and hopelessness, to where I am now, which really doesn't resemble ANY of those things much.

I have done a lot of seeking, both spiritually and intellectually. The "conclusion" that I came to is that life is most enjoyed in simplicity, and that I, personally, have a tendency to complicate things for myself.....such as the simple procedure of blogging. :D

And speaking of "conclusions"....I will conclude this entry with one statement. One of the core elements of deep peace and joy is simplicity. In seeking joy, happiness, peace of mind and heart, success, and love.....I think often what we lack might well be just that....simplicity.

At the moment, I simply need some sleep! So with that I will end this entry and look forward to the next.

Happy Journeys,
Lori