This is how it started for me, blogging. In college I used to write my friends, near and far, an update about my life on Fridays. Writing was therapeutic for me (still is), and the (relative) impersonality of email prevented outcomes I did not want, like me bursting into tears on the phone, or simply spending more hours than I already did on the phone.
Several blogs later I was on vox.com (RIP) and I started the same way. Notes about my life meant for the friends I know and those I haven’t met yet. I’ve been having trouble blogging lately. I started a private blog to write only to myself. That worked for about a week and a half. I started a Tumblr account that is laying beautifully fallow. The words have been coming out on paper (a perfectly good place for them I might add), but I needed to make some peace with a live, 0nce-exclusively-food-oriented, blog here. So I am beginning at the beginning, which I often do when I don’t know where else to start. Maybe it will stick.
My life this week: It is a blessing to be on vacation. Thanks to Passover and Easter I am not due back at my favourite worst new nightmare until Wednesday, April 3rd. Unfortunately it has been on my mind a lot today and I am wrestling with the strategies to make it better. Making it better seems like it will mean paying attention to it and that is probably my biggest complaint. I don’t want to give my time and attention to my tasks at that place. I know things could be a lot worse, but currently that job is what makes my blood pressure rise and makes me drop things, stub my toes etc. whenever I think about it. In a wonderful combination of all of the above, while trying to think through ‘the work problem’ this morning I dropped the small ceramic bowl of dry granola I was holding directly on my toe. After the initial pain wore off, it was actually pretty funny.
And that dichotomy is the theme of this week. I’m sad. I am deeply, darkly, dankly, dourly, fatiguingly, achingly, consistently (hyperbolically) sad. I HATE my job. Hate it. I want to make it stand on a stool in the center of a room while I throw blunt, heavy, objects at it. I want it to slip into a coma so that I get paid, but don’t have to go to work. I want it to evaporate. I almost want time travel so I just don’t have to live through the last 55 days of it. I want to shove it into a closet and have it get trapped in Narnia. I want it to go away and never bother me or speak my name again. And feeling like that so much of the time really drags me down. It makes me sad.
Yet, my little, cooky, optimistic streak is still beating in there. Alive and treading water, beckoning me to jump on in, forget about my worries, chillax. The coexistence of these two emotions is hard for me contain. All optimism feels like an absolute sham. All darkness is not true, not helpful, and a damn bummer. I love these breadcrumbs of ridiculousness, frivolity, celebration, and excitement. I wouldn’t want it any other…scratch that, more ease and joy will be incredibly welcome when they arrive.
I have never been particularly confident in my little spiritual arc reactor. I am delighted to find that it glows as diligently as my creative, often convoluted, and far outnumbering braziers of emotional pain. And I guess I’m where I was, and where I have been, and where -if I’m lucky- I will be every day of a complex life birthed at every turn by my own choices: Suck it up and deal. Sometimes it’s a seafood feast and champagne, sometimes it’s gravel. Sometimes when you pan that gravel you find a little piece of gold.
No better, but maybe a tiny bit bolder. Happy Friday!