Aarrgh...

These past weeks have been tough. 

I wish I could say I was a really healthy, super disciplined person. The truth is, I fall somewhere close to the middle of the continuum between lazy, good-for-nothing and winner, winner, chicken dinner. ​

​You see, I will be writing steadily, and then I will have these spurts of insight, of passion. I will heave myself out of the Swamp of Confusion and onto the mud-slick shores of, “I think I might possibly be heading somewhere.” 

After which, I allow first life, and then thoughts, to drag me right back into that swamp.

Once I’m back in the Swamp of Confusion, all hell breaks loose. Some of that hell is mental, some of it is physical and then other little tidbits of it are spiritual and emotional.

Okay, okay. 

Enough with this metaphor; I think I’ve juiced it dry. 

Let me be more specific:

1. I will tell the world, “I’ve found my calling. I know what I’m supposed to be about!”
2. Little lies will puncture that gargantuan ball of passion, of intent. They will say to me that I’m a fraud, an imposter. They will warn me not to be a hypocrite, not to try to “rise above my station”. 
3. Life will morph hard, stressful and busy. Health problems manifest. Exhaustion sets in and depressive feelings follow.
4. Little ol’ me thinks she needs to cope by doing the following:
   1. Run from those negative feelings. Run!! Get really busy. Sign up for classes, buy too many books, embrace errands, clean, clean, clean the house, start a new business, go shopping, buy things I don’t need on Amazon...ANYTHING but feel the pain.
   2. AVOID the things I really want and/or need to do like they are Covid-19. Pretend they don’t exist.
   3. Grieve the fact I am not spending my time on what I love and top the grief with a generous dose of shame: “You know how you told people you were gonna keep writing? Well, look at you! You’re not writing at all. You’ve failed.” Friend, have you ever tried to do something you're convinced you’ve already failed at? Ugh. 
   4. Fall apart. Forget who I am. Become explosive and snappy. Become easily annoyed. 
5. Finally, I will come close to drowning in that old swamp of hopeless meaninglessness, you know, the metaphor I said I'd already sucked dry.

So this? This post? After so many moons absent?

This is me saying to that accusing voice, Fuck you! 

It’s me owning what I’ve known all along: the margins of resistance in my heart, mind and soul, those are the places where I need to be. And for me, resistance happens most often when I’m writing, when I’m speaking my truth, when I’m cracking open the lid of my pinkish-colored, raw vulnerability.

Steven Pressfield warns, “How many of us have become drunks and drug addicts, developed tumors and neuroses, succumbed to painkillers, gossip and compulsive cell-phone use, simply because we don’t do that thing that our hearts, our inner genius, is calling us to?” 

I am supposed to write. I know this.

And to do that, I must be honest, open and vulnerable. I must write both confessionally and ardently about the differences between who I am, who I want to be and who I’m actually becoming.

So here it is. A new beginning. Time to try again. To write, regularly and faithfully, and to write toward justice, goodness and hope.

I cannot commit to never failing. But I can commit to always trying again.

I cannot commit to getting everything right. But I can commit to being a good and humble learner.

I cannot promise I’ll always live out what I preach. But I can commit to using the sharp knife of truth to cut away the hypocrisy.

I cannot commit to never hearing shaming, silencing, warning voices in my head. But I can commit to calling bullshit on them.

These are really trying times, my friends.

If you’ve been similarly struggling, rise up, I say. Try again. Tomorrow’s a new day. Let's not allow failure to write our endings.

If you’re doing great and are super self-disciplined and successful, well, do you mind sending some of your magical blood, sweat and tears my way? I could really use the extra boost.

And now, in the words of my son at the heals of his chemo-wielding nurse, “Peace out!”