Ready Space

I made it to the coffee shop before the rain started its mad rush down. I feel sorry for the man who has to ride his motorcycle home. I don't feel sorry for myself, today. For the paper I came here to research and write as fast as I can. I am very much afraid of writing the paper. I don't really know what I'm doing. I don't know where to start. I don't feel like I know enough about this topic to really thoroughly analyze and explore it. I don't really know much about writing a long research, theory based paper which also keeps me afraid and a little tied up and a little gray.

Though there is also this latent excitement for actually doing work. For cracking the books and keeping the word document open in full screen view for hours on end. There is something romantic about that.

The issue I think I face most often (well, I'm not sure I actually turn and face it and try to struggle and deal and work through it) is that I want very much the romance of work to combine with actual work. In my mind I also rarely work. I rarely sit down and focus on one project. I try to distract myself. I can't handle work. I must do a whole slew of other things while working. What will happen to me if I give myself to work for an afternoon? What if the work is unfulfilling? What if I work and work and work only, and nothing?

I think my life will feel better if I actually allow myself to believe in my autonomy and agency, my own strength and power to do, to act, to work. I need work. I need the work of work. The slushy lonely lostness there. I need the pressure and the trying and the I really want this. Instead I let myself sit in not wanting, in complaining, in lack, in distraction. I do not want those things to take my life. I don't want to give my life to them.

Time for a work day. I am bringing myself to the table, to the books, to the open document with a curser appearing, disappearing, stomping its little desirous beat for text to come and create an entity, something new to take up ready space.

Today's Thankful List

1. Kevin saying today that I am one of the most self-deprecating people he knows, and one of the most brilliant.

2. Rain says tired days can offer some kind of sustenance.

3. A waft of apple cider just moved through the coffee shop.

4. I have so much possibility right now.

5. I could become a poet.

6. I could become a teacher.

7. I could write memoir.

8. I could write plays.

9. I can sing.

10. Rosie's new album is such a help.

11. There are always cupcakes.

12. Lunch yesterday with Jess.

13. Having someone to share the fears with.

14. Danielle's phone calls.

15. Paula's encouragement and consistent love.

16. Books that are painful to read but show me directions to grow (Boundaries in Marriage).

17. The sweet blogs I can read every day (Shauna Niequist's blog, Poetry, Brunch, Dooce).

18. I can make strange art.

19. I can build forts in my living room.

20. My mom.

Michelle Me

I'm done with this losing heart business. I have been lost in so many layers of clouds, and have begun to wonder whether I have been stuffing them on myself. I must be deeply afraid of something. How I pine for Grand Rapids, coffee shops, summer, a garden, lots and lots of light, summer dresses, going places, driving with the windows down, my music, singing, writing my own songs, drawing. I can't go to Grand Rapids, but I can sing, can write my own songs, can draw, can invite light into my lonely apartment. But I'm so terrified of that. Terrified.

Because I can't afford to live this way for much longer (and I am more terrified that I can't escape these horribly cloudy days...these hopeless lost sweeps of thought), I am creating this new blog. I am calling it, "Michelle Me," because I want to learn who I am. I want to learn what I want. I'm using my name as a verb. I want to become all that that name has to offer me. It has always felt foreign, but it has always been mine.

Likewise, I have always felt not myself. Not home. I hold bright ideals in my head. Not dreams of wealth or of heroes. Nothing too lofty. Just happiness. Which always looks sunny, bright, to me. I don't even know, most of the time, what's beneath the light. It's as if I'm staring into the sun. That's the dream. Sun. But who I am seems so far from that white ball freeing me into lightness and joy. I don't know who I am. I only know that symbol of joy. So, I'm trying to connect with myself. Who am I? Who is Michelle? Where has she been? What is she really up to behind her sad heart? What is she hiding from? What does she really want?

I am so inspired tonight by Rosie Thomas. Her new album came out today, and I needed it. Her interviews are so honest. I feel such companionship with her in her anxiety, sadness, worries, and joys. I am listening to her new album right now, feeling that feeling I have had in my life, sporadically, of freedom, of wishfulness, of a hidden magic.

I don't feel alone. And I'm thinking, What makes Rosie believe in joy? I believe she believes in joy. How does joy work? Does Michelle (do I) believe in joy? I don't think I do lately. But knowing some smart, artsy, real people out there believe deeply in it despite their worries, fears, and incredible obstacles, makes me feel like I need to think about believing too.

I have a real shot at joy. I have this awesome guy who asked me to marry him who I'm going to marry in a few short months. He listens to me endlessly. I don't have to be cool for him. I don't have to be a poet. I don't have to be happy. I don't even have to believe in joy. I don't understand why he is here, in every mess of myself, with me. I don't understand that.

And I know I need to search for joy for myself. But I also think I could search for it for him. Because though he is strong and knows where to find it for himself, my joy can help us both take steps up into a new kind of living. We can be partners in joy, rather than him trying to lift me up, trying to sit with me, and my sadness.

My sadness is okay. I need to let my sadness be okay. I think the most important thing I need to remember is that my sadness is not everything. My sadness is not the world, is not Virginia, is not Michigan, is not my relationship, is not my life. My sadness is not the real. The real, the stuff of living, is bigger than my sadness. It is bigger than my tough heart.

I want to hold my sadness out like a big ball of yarn. Something gray. And I want to start unraveling it, learning it, and letting it go. I need to let it not become a sturdy, forever, part of me. It isn't. But I make it into the clothes I wear. I make it into who I am and how I move through the world. But it's a ball of yarn I can stretch out in my hands. I can toss it far away. I can cut it up. I can burn it if I like. Right now I'm learning to hold it out. Keep it separate. Not me. Not Michelle.