There's Something I Want to Tell You

There are a lot of things I want to tell you. Last week I finished a book, my fifth book of the year (which is a feat for me with my basically non-existent reading streak). I started doing hot yoga again for the first time in 2 years and I’m not sure if I love it or loathe it, but I think it’s good I’m going. The knee is still healing, but I’ve been able to start using it again in ways I’ve needed and help me feel more even. I surfed for 30 minutes and I went to my run club again finally—2 miles was just enough thank you very much. 

Piano is coming back to me and I’m enjoying taking lessons, even if the win for the week is playing “On Top of Ol’ Smokey” and nailing those simple arpeggios. (It’s actually kind of pretty to play.) I’m slowly making some friends in Long Beach, and that’s nice to get know some people locally. 

I had a birthday; my 39th birthday to be exact (or 38 + 1, as my cake so affectionately said)—and it feels significant. Less than a year until a new decade and I want to be so intentional with my time, with myself, with people, with experiences. Take nothing for granted and be fully present to it all. This birthday was really weird to be honest. Still good in its weirdness, but weird. It’s too much to share the why, but if you know me (or if you don’t I guess here’s a little window into me), you know birthdays are a big deal. It matters to celebrate people and remind them that they are loved. Expectations for my birthday slowly are adjusting as I get older, but I still eagerly await the day and what surprises might come with it. I did have some really beautiful surprises, by the way.

Also, I made my therapist cry. Don’t worry—it was in a good way. She’s not terribly expressive in her affect, so sharing an organic meaningful moment that had us both in tears was significant. After 4.5 years, it feels we’re taking our relationship to the next level, and all I can say is, wow. What a gift. Are we officially a couple?!

That’s not all that I want to tell you, though.

What I really want to tell you is that I’m a writer. It feels silly to type out, but let me back up a bit. 

I am trying to make creativity a daily practice, centering my life around it. In July I experienced something pretty wild that shook me awake a bit. In talking about with Jessie during therapy, I described it as this pressure within me, just begging to burst out of the restrictions of my body, like a balloon ready to pop. I’ve avoided being creative (more specifically, writing) for a long time. It’s too scary to try when the last time I was just about to put my whole heart and soul into creating, my life got turned upside down and inside out. Quitting my job in Seattle and moving to the Oregon Coast was supposed to be the spaciousness and permission to pursue creative endeavors without limitation. Boy, that sure didn’t go as planned. I can laugh about it now (I think?), but that doesn’t change the undercurrent of grief for (what feels like) the lost time of the last 4 years not trying.

I could have...

I should have…

Maybe I could have. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. And that’s okay. I was just a tad busy surviving to add much else in. 

In hindsight, I don’t think I was quite ready either. I needed the past 4 years to go inward. To be broken open. To root deeper and grow bigger branches that could more easily bend and bow with the storms, but not break. To expand wisdom and temper fires without putting out the spark. To feel bigger feelings and know what it’s like to have nothing and yet be profoundly humbled and grateful for the richness that life holds, especially in a vulnerable place of nothingness. It’s taken me to places I never wanted to go and never thought I’d experience and as much as I loathed it, I also can sincerely say I loved it—for what it was and what it’s formed (and continues to form) in me. Creating from that place, it’s a threshold unlike any other. The place of grit is a place of grace and gratitude.

But even with this new resolve to create, I’m finding sneaky ways to avoid it. Now, I know lots of people procrastinate and lots of people are perfectionists and lots of people like to please others. I don’t think I realized just how common it actually is, especially for those that write. Like, very unoriginal. Which is both comforting and obnoxious. So writers are just born with those things? Awesome. 

I discovered this from the virtual writing conference I attended this weekend. I was able to get it paid for by work and wasn’t planning to attend live since I’d gain access to sessions for up to a year from now. It would be a resource for later. Then I realized I literally had no weekend plans, so as Friday evening rolled around with nothing to do and a little curiosity, I realized I could join in just in time to listen to Anne Lamott speak to kickoff the conference (among other amazing writers like Alex Elle and Julia Cameron).

First thing she shares? “You want to write? Put your butt in the chair.” 

Cool. It’s just that simple? It’s just that simple. And just that annoying.

Over the next couple of days as I listened, watched, responded to writing prompts, made animal noises, laughed, cried, celebrated, and witnessed those presenting and attending live, it became increasingly more evident that what I assumed were writing struggles that I thought were at least a little unique to me, are writing struggles in no way unique to me. A litany of stories were shared exposing the most vulnerable and raw fears, desires, insecurities, and given a place to be heard and held and answered with truths. The biggest truth? I am a writer. We are all writers. This writing room we gathered in physically and virtually was a sanctuary to bathe in that truth. From the first moment to the final goodbye, it was a supplication turned benediction. To hear it became as methodical and steady as breathing. To say it, however, felt as uncomfortable as holding your breath for a little too long—like I do driving through a tunnel determined to make it through without really knowing when it will end. Saying that I am writer is just that uncomfortable. It feels so untrue, even now, as I sit with my butt in the chair writing in this very moment. I’m not actually a writer, is what I want to say. 

Yet, if I took one thing away from the weekend, it’s a claiming of the phrase—I am a writer. So I’ll (try to) claim it. I want to claim it because I want it to be true. I want to claim it to reclaim the opportunity that feels like was lost to me 4 years ago. I want to claim it because I really want to try and write to be published, to move from occasional public journaling online to share something tangible that can be physically held and marked up and cherished. Sure, it’s a saturated market. I know, and it’s exactly what keeps me making excuses for not doing it. But I also know that if what I can offer allows just one person to be seen or feel more alive or less alone or even just a little entertained, then why not? Why not put my tiny offering into a corner of the world for that person. Or at the very least, for me, to say that I did it. FINALLY.

It’s that light at the end of the tunnel coming into view where it feels possible to hold my breath just a little longer because when I pass through, that exhale is exhilarating and magnificent. It’s relief and release—I don’t have to hold it in anymore. It’s mine, but it can also be yours too. 

That’s what I wanted to tell you.