This is kinda nice. Sitting here on the screened-in balcony. Feet propped. Feet socked. That’s key. At least for right now. Sometimes the tootsies need to be freed, and other times I like the concealment. The enclosure. The protection from the elements.
My beautiful beagle perched on her green couch cushion, shouldered by two other couch cushions — one a variety of animal print and the other a leafy textured one. Just listening to the birds and “Plain Jayne.” If you’ve never heard the song on Spotify, I’d give it a try.
What would be a big flaw of mine that some people could misinterpret about my impression of them? I overexplain things. To a painful point. To the point where we have gone more than full circle — we have run several laps around the field. I have Saran-wrapped my fucking face in explanations. Like how I’m doing now. Try this analogy for size. Try that. I don’t know. That’s how my brain works. It’s constant dialogue up here. I don’t know who is always talking. Amy has the mic most days (short for amygdala — the emotional dojo), and she refuses to put it down.
She was really running with it today. Voice booming in the mic. The echo reverberating through my entire body. I was fueled with anger and frustration and just overall feelings of agony. Why am I still waiting? Why haven’t I begun to feel settled?
I’m grateful for this chair. These two chairs. This cat that just made me cry out from stepping on my all-too-sensitive abdomen. Rubbing and loving up against me. Each tail whip is an “I. Love. You.” Looking up at my flowers. Gave them a good drink of water yesterday. Everyone is extra green and perky. Feeling rejuvenated. I can see my night-blooming cereus sprouting new arborizations.
My cat just knocked over my phone.
Trying to find a chill mix on Spotify that complements the current mood. Contemplative. Pensive. Hmm. The theme from Jurassic Park just came on. Can you hear it? The familiar crescendo of brass, woodwinds, and strings melting together. Sometimes I wonder how people actually write music.
When I am writing a scene, oftentimes I’ll close my eyes and picture it. Things go by in my mind like a movie. Quite literally like a motion picture. And you want to catch every glimmer. Every contact between people. Every nuance. Every reality, whether abstract or literal. I want to catch who people are looking at. Their sideways smiles. Their interpretation of the world around them. Their ticks. Their tacks. You know, grievances. What’s gonna make their skin tingle and itch and get all spiky. Or what relaxes them. Soothes their soul. What feels like a warm hug from tip to tail?
My Bob Ross sticker has seen way too much of my cat’s privates, but that’s his cross to bear.
Husband is working out inside. He challenged himself to holding each wall sit for a minute and a half and came out with a cute but defeated look of, “Yeah, I couldn’t do it.” And here I am, sitting cross-legged in my socked feet on our balcony, sipping my raspberry lemon Recess drink, having a cat infringe on mine and Mr. Ross’s personal space, with my black Brooks cap — the one that makes me feel covert in the cutest way — and my emerald-green sweater.
I look up to my husband. Those big gorgeous hazel eyes of his. Those eyes that make me melt a little every time. And I reply with a smile and say, “I didn’t even finish my mile run. The geese chased after me,” and started coughing as I laughed it off.
“My poor lungs,” I say. So unconditioned. I haven’t run in several weeks, and my mere attempt today was a sad one. So needless to say, I think I won in the biggest loser category. But hey, A for effort, right? Participation trophies still happen in your thirties, right?
I swear to God if this damn cat highlights and deletes one more damn thing.
I guess he’s just like, “Mom, quit runnin’ your suck and pet me, damnit.”
I didn’t clue you into what I landed on listening to. Instrumentals. I needed something earthy. Something vibrant. As if it could be in the background of a montage of a flower growing — from seed, to taking root, to full bloom. A progressive type of instrumental where you can feel the emotional pull toward a character arc. Growth. Despair. Hurt. Pain. Learning. Getting up. Trying again.
If we picture our misfortunes as works of art, it’s really just a beautiful clusterfuck of cataclysmic events that are randomly — or maybe not so randomly — assigned to our souls. Energy cannot be created nor destroyed, only transferred. Channeling the energy transfer is everything in life.
It’s like our bodies are radios. Vessels for tuning the architecture of the frequency of our lives. And it changes as readily as these pieces on my playlist. From sharp staccato beats to liquid flow and pink velveteen. We really all are works of art, whether we can appreciate it or not. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
And to think, I started out this day upset. Pissed off. Resentful. Bitter. Even with a horrible sense of entitlement.
For reference, I still haven’t heard about the job yet. The last person they were going to interview last week was called out on a trip, and they’re interviewing them tomorrow. In my mind I’m like, so sad, too bad. In the words of all the NFL announcers: the best ability is availability. Too fucking bad. Seems like the job is mine.
And I felt that. Like I felt that hard.
Like, why was I put through such a difficult and strenuous interview process just for this agonizing period of limbo? Of waiting? Of hugging the proverbial porcelain wondering whether to retch or not? It’s been killing me.
And then it got quiet in my mind. Just for a moment. Let’s not get crazy. Shit stays poppin’ like NYC.
But I thought: no. Humble yourself right now. This opportunity isn’t yours. You’re not entitled because you’ve had a difficult past. That’s life. Your suffering is mutually exclusive from your readiness to perform the job duties.
And yes, you can recognize that this is frustrating and disappointing and validate the very human emotion of, what the fuck, can we just get on with it? But don’t let it consume you. That consumption will swallow you whole and shit you out into a pile of anger and resentment, and you’ll smell like foul fucking entitlement.
No. I need to be patient. Keep my cool. What’s meant for me will come to me. I have done all that I can do.
And just like many of my plants here on our balcony — some have survived, and some have not. RIP banana plant. I think it was her time. But my growth will come to fruition when I am rightfully deserving of the opportunity. And I believe I conveyed everything I needed to express about myself in my interview last week.
I guess what I’m really trying to say, as I’m imagining strumming a guitar more or less for ego purposes, is that when we’re in a period of limbo — of waiting, of the unknown — when we are on the precipice of something wonderful, something that would benefit our lives greatly, something life-altering, and there seems to be delay after delay… recognize the frustration. Validate that emotion. Feel it. Sink in it. Hell, give Amy the mic if you need to. That bitch usually just rips it out of my hands anyway.
But then what is it really doing for me to let her talk the whole time? What message is really landing there? Or do we just need help processing it all?
I hope this excerpt helps at least one other person feel understood. Feel valued. Feel seen. Even with their ballcap tucked tight.
I see you. I know you. I feel you.
Patience is oftentimes the most difficult aspect of the exam. And it’s right before we free fall into something wonderful.
