have a little love and understanding

i grew up with grumpy, moody people.
i am drawn to those types in my grown up life.
i always have lots of them around.
i don’t always like it.
but we fit.
i understand the conversation, or lack of one.

my mom popped alot of pills when i was a kid, because of her illnesses.
not a street drug addict,
but somethin’… just sayin’.
i am drawn to addicts and alcoholics.
(these days i prefer the sober ones)
i’m at home when they keep me a little off-balance.
(sober ones too.)
i know the dance.
i try to get them to mother me, by mothering them.
it’s what i know to do.
and i’m good at it.
we fit.

i was fat when i was a kid.
i get vigilantly concerned when any of my off-spring, rounds out a bit.
scared that they might be me.
i imagine, what they might feel like.
assume, it’s what i felt like.
and then i act out.
i watch. i monitor. i worry.
has nothing to do with them.
it’s all about me.

it’s comforting.
its familiar.
its obsessive.
its nuts.

sometimes i complain about my place in all this.
the company i keep.
the struggles of others i am forced to endure.
the insanity of someone doing that “insane thing” one more time.
really gets under my skin.

forgetting, these are my lessons.
my healing.
a choice.

forgetting that the imperfect scenario or broken bird is exactly right.
and what i called forth.
(as my friend Belle would say)
(i don’t actually say things like that)
so i can do it again.
whatever it is.
and fucking learn from it.

this time, let the grump be grumpy without having to “make things better”.
this time, not take on the moods of the moody and slip down the rabbit hole with them.
this time, not interpret that your bad behavior is a direct result of something i did or didn’t do.
don’t try to get the alcoholic sober, understanding that i don’t know whats best for anybody…period.
just love them anyway.

i do all that shit.
and i will keep doing that shit, until i don’t need to anymore.

when your cloudy day no longer sits on MY chest.
when i can sleep even though YOU are in a precarious place.
when you can have it.
all to yourself.
and can fuck yourself up any way you damn well please without sweat on my brow.

when i can let you go.

i think i might like that.
this kind of neurosis has been my jag for a very long time.
i think i’m tired of blowing in your wind.

for today, i will keep the focus on myself

a few thoughts on surrender.

i just bought a magazine i would never buy.
it’s cover claimed to “anti-age” me.
in bright bold print it screamed at me how these few steps promised to actually “slow down the process”.

i bit.
i bought.
i don’t give a shit about anything else in this home improvement mag.
i’ll glance at the “new products” and toss it.

i’m a sucker for any new claim that i can “anti-age”.
any new product, skin procedure, friendly piece of advice.
anything that soothes me in my most self critical moments.

those promises speak to my outsides.
youth being the holy grail and all…
i drink the kool-aid.
my insides, are joyous and grateful for the years i wear.
what i know, where i’ve been.
what’s been given and what’s been taken away.
i just wish the look of wisdom didn’t get saggy!

it’s on my mind more lately.
cause guess what?
i’m fucking getting older!

this morning i am able to observe my worry.
my fear of what it means.
how it makes me feel.
like i’m disappearing.
my self-obsession…

and notice how it clashes with my practice, my desire, my prayer for surrender.
it really does.
it clashes.
and its hard for me to do.
release and accept my moving parts.

surrender is the sweet spot.
i’ve learned it over and over in my life.
to surrender outcomes, bad habits, weird people, self-obsession…whatever.
yet, it never seems like it’s the way to go or that it will work.

seems to easy… sort of stupid.
to just let go.
straining to change what is, has momentum, movement, energy.
kind of feels invigorating.
gives me something to do, to work towards.
gives me wheels to spin.
simply giving up?
surrendering? feels passive.
unproductive, still.

still scares me.

there are alot of hours to fill in a day.
alot of days in a week.
lots of weeks in a year.

if i actually lived in a surrendered place, what would i do with all that time??
reach enlightenment?
sounds boring.

i kinda dig my tortured, chaotic thoughts.
they work for me.
something about the process of getting them to shut-up that teaches me what i need to know.
they serve a purpose.

it’s the seeking surrender that holds the gold.
it’s the process of letting go that speaks loudest.

“ring the bells that still can ring,
forget your perfect offering.
there is a crack, a crack in everything.
that’s how the light gets in”

Leonard Cohen

might be mediocre

i’m sitting down early this morning.
i have a busy brain.
minutiae mostly.

house projects, travel plans, kid schedules…
so i thought i’d just write some first.
see if i can.

rise above the noise.

i meditate most mornings before i get going.
it was loud in my head today.
all that little shit.
makes it hard to sit still.
i forget it’ll all still be there in 20 minutes.
i won’t lose what i think i will.
the cream will always rise to the top.

but in this moment i’m impatient.
i don’t want to write.
i wanna move.
i wanna check things off the list.

i’m hearing my voice.
reminding me of what’s not done.
scolding me for not getting to what i wanted to finish up by friday.
confirming how i can never quite complete.
its a pervasive thought process.
that then continues on.

telling me i’m not enough.
asking me why i thought blogging was a good idea.
knowing i won’t be able to keep it up.

i’m going to hear that screech, and do it anyway.
i’m going to post this any second now.
after i’ve read it just one more time…
i’m going to hear that voice that says this could be more and i’m going to shut it dowm.

because sometimes good enough is just that, good enough

take that busy brain.

the next day

such sweet and prompt response to my new venture.

a quick note to agents and publishing entitys.
(i heard the nervous undertones in your emails)
it’s not that i don’t want to “fucking write my book”, i do.

it’s that this is new for me.
and i get afraid of new things.
i think to much about them.
worry about my shortcomings.
make up a whole lot more of them than i actually have.
i lose faith in myself.
wonder why anyone else has any… faith.
and i stop doing the new thing.

i’m afraid for the same reasons any of us are.
it’s nothing unique.
fear of not being able to do the thing.
fear it will suck.
fear i’ll get laughed at.
fear it will just be to hard to accomplish.

so i distract.
i run errands, i organize closets, i diet, i exercise, i do anything to feel different.
and not start that new thing.

yesterday, after i outed myself,
to more than just a best friend or a sponsor,
by starting this blog,
i did some writing for my book.
for more than the half an hour i’d committed to.
it felt really good.

there’s something i heard in a recovery room years ago.
i’m paraphrasing but something like..
“where there is a commitment, god intervenes.”
be it commitment to recovery, to your husband, to your dream.

and i really do believe that with that intervention there is protection.
a nice cozy place to warm my fear.

again, thank-you for witnessing.

the beginning

i want to write a blog so i am accountable.
here’s the story…
end of last year i made a book deal.

based on my personal writings, that i happened to share with my manager, that ended up on Kirbys desk (literary agent), that he decided might make a book, that he promised me wouldn’t become a “celebrity tell all”.

so I said yes, ok, lets see if anyone might be interested.

the thing is, i actually can write.
at least, sometimes i think i can write.
i know i can write songs.
my amazing writer husband @sutterink agrees and encourages.
and he wouldn’t just do that.
not to make me feel good.

if anything, quite the opposite,

my husband protects.
he loves me, and would gently try to steer my ship another way.
because that’s how he is.

he approves.

so, we shopped my couple of essays that would be the tone of my book, if i were to write a book, and there was interest.

and offers.

and i said yes to the outfit that understood my approach.
i can’t write a book about celebrity.
i’m a bad one.
its not all that interesting to me.

my stories are my memories, my observations.
circumstances that amuse me.
what interests me is all i can write.
my behaviors in response to where i’ve come from interests me.
what has happened in spite of myself interests me.
and yes, some of what has happened to me involves my work.
so yes, a few famous faces are ruminated on.

but here’s the thing.

i have a book deal.
and i don’t want to fucking write the book.
i find myriad reasons why not to sit down.

the intention of this blog is to call myself out, people please my way into showing up for this commitment, embarrass myself if i don’t.

i’m not going to share book snippets here.
just the niggly, annoying voices in my head that keep me from jumping in.
at least that’s the beginning.

my commitment to myself is to write half hour a day.
seems manageable.
if i write for longer, well good for me.
if not, well, i did something to move me forward.

now I have to figure out how to blog this.
that could take a minute.