Annie

Change requires three types of work:

Burn down the old things.

Build up the new things.

Bridge the gap between old and new. 

This is helpful to keep in mind at a couple of levels. 

The small scope of my own life, when I want to change things for myself in some way, I need to look at the whole picture. I need to do all three types of work. Sometimes I burn something down but don’t build anything to replace it. That’s dangerous. Sometimes I build a new thing (or plan to step into something better, already built) but don’t give myself a way to get there, no bridge to cross the chasm between Old Thing and New Thing. I keep requiring myself to jump across, to make these big leaps. It’s exhausting, even when it’s possible. And often it’s not even possible. 

Then there’s the larger scope of, y’know, everything. It’s easy to criticize. Easy to point, easy to blame. Interestingly, none of that sideline stuff counts as work. None of it moves us toward meaningful change.

Burn, build, or bridge: that’s the work.

If somebody’s burning down the old stuff and you want to build the new stuff, start building. Don’t bash the people tending those fires.

Or maybe you want to stand in those gaps, reach across, help people move from an old thing to a new thing. That’s great, that’s important. Don’t bash the people building the new things; don’t spend your energy or waste their time pointing out how they could improve the structure.

If you want to work on building the new thing, get in there and build. Improve the structure yourself. 

Think people are burning things too fast, going too far? Help contain and direct the fire yourself. It’s messy work, difficult work, dangerous work. Not easy to do. 

Less critiquing. More contributing. 

For the WeblogPoMoAMA challenge created by Annie. I’m answering a question from Stéphane: Are you always as tongue in cheek as your blog makes us believe?

Whatever would make you ask that question?

Okay, so the real answer is I’m often quite serious and earnest. And when people speak to me with seriousness or deep emotion, I try to meet the tone or situation appropriately.

I do not always succeed. 😬

Not too long ago my youngest daughter was upset about something and was telling me about it. I listened, asked a few questions, and interjected a little joke. A small humorous aside. An itty-bitty witticism. She looked at me in silence, then took a deep breath and said, “Okay Mom, I know you’re trying to help, but when I’m upset and you make a joke, I feel like you’re not taking me seriously.”

So that was a learning moment for me. 

I love witty banter, dry humor, irony, and sarcasm (though I do not like mean-spirited sarcasm that seeks to make others feel small). But I am better at these in writing, as text-based communication doesn’t give me away the way my own facial expressions do. 

I also like puns and really dumb jokes. Here’s one of my favorites:

Q: What’s green and has 24 ½ legs?

A: Grass. I was just kidding about the legs. 

I think humor often alleviates tension and helps us navigate awkward moments. Sometimes I rely on it too much instead of sitting in the awkwardness or the tension or the feelings. 

But often, a ready sense of humor does help. Life is hard, and confusing. When faced with absurdity, sometimes joining in, in your own way, is an excellent choice. And my perspective on “What is okay to make fun of?” has shifted a lot over the years, so I do not have many taboos anymore.

And I am pretty much always ready to laugh. 

My mom could not keep a straight face when she thought something was funny, a trait she passed onto me. She was terrible at telling jokes. She would start giggling before she got halfway through. The closer she got to the punchline, the more she laughed until, usually, she was laughing so hard she couldn’t finish the joke. She would gasp out the words to the punchline while doubled over, laughing, and the rest of us would be sitting there watching her, wishing we knew what was so funny. But we always ended up laughing too—not because the joke was funny (who knows? Might have been!) but because laughter is an invitation. I like to say Yes. 

You pause, you kneel, you watch

“What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Have you ever watched a grasshopper or a cricket or a spider.

Or ants? I love watching ants. But a grasshopper is a better example because we can see the details better. Stop and watch one sitting on that stalk of grass, it's going to jump in a second, any second now but for a few seconds it's you and this grasshopper and it has perfect little legs with perfect little pointy bends for jumping and it has three dots in a row on each of its legs and this grasshopper is so much like every other grasshopper but it's the only one that is THIS one.

And it may be, in fact it's likely, that you are the only human who will ever take a few seconds to kneel down and be still and look at this particular grasshopper.

Not that it cares. It's going to jump now—there it goes—and you'll never see it again and it maybe didn't even notice you, or didn't notice you as more than a giant shadow, a large moving presence, a potential danger. Maybe it thought you were a bird at first when your shadow fell close and it almost jumped but you knelt instead of diving and you breathed soft instead of chirping or screeching and so it stayed for a moment on the stalk of grass.

Off it goes, goodbye grasshopper, have a nice life, hope you don't get eaten by a bird today.

Maybe you’re the only person to notice this particular grasshopper, and it's leaping away and no other grasshopper just like it will ever exist and you’re the one who got to see it. You.

That's a good day. That's a worthwhile way to spend a moment or a life, I think. Seeing things that exist right now in this particular form, for this moment, that will be washed away with the night or the decade or the generation. But here they are right now for you to notice and wonder at and think, How odd, how wild, how wonderful, how unlikely that we would be alive together in this moment and come across each other.

You’re the only one of you.

And whether life is a series of destiny-driven encounters with purposefully beautifully connected patterns, or meaningless tumbles in the ultimate darkness of an infinitely random universe,

You’re the only one of you.

2020

Sunday

I wake up feeling on edge, empty. Seems like I’ve been flowing out, out, out but neglecting myself. I feel sapped, drained, dried out. I need to sit still and quiet and alone. 

Everyone is still asleep. I creep down to the kitchen, make a cup of coffee, and come out to the patio. I pull a chair over and sit, back to the door, feet propped on the rail. I plug in my headphones and sip coffee and look out over the valley. There’s a small bright green parrot flashing in the darker green of the trees. It’s warm already, but not uncomfortable. 

I turn on a quiet instrumental song and close my eyes.

A few minutes later I feel him sit down beside me. He doesn’t say anything but I immediately feel this urge to stop what I’m doing and check in with him. I stop myself. Look over, smile, then back to myself, inward. I meditate for a few more minutes, then open my journal. I’m writing, now. I’m absorbed in what I’m doing, and he’s physically calm and peaceful beside me but something is off. 

The undercurrents.

It feels like something coiled, waiting. A desire held in check, this reaching-out-and-asking energy. It doesn’t feel like we’re creating a togetherness in which we are both here, near each other, but in our own selves, content. It feels like he is restraining himself, waiting for me to finish my thing so we can start the real thing, interact, talk, so he can have my attention, get my feedback… As if he’s waiting for his turn.

I’m not sure if that’s the actual energy or my expectation, my own anxiety. And my own energy has shifted. Instead of calm, instead of being fully in myself, I’m sending out feelers, hesitant, uncertain: “Are you okay? Are we okay? Is everything okay?” And I hate it. We have no agenda, no schedule today. But instead of peacefully remaining in my own self, knowing that he is okay, there is no need for me to interrupt myself or hurry or ‘get to him’ because there is no urgency, I am wound up, bubbling, chaotic, crashing and clashing inwardly. 

Monday

Nice early morning run without headphones/music. Good—listening to my rhythm, breathing, more in tune with my body.

Worked at home. Ate lunch together, he’s in a weird low mood. Talked a bit, then excused myself to get back to work. Sometimes distance is what we need.

Wednesday

We’re in the car going to pick up some things we left at —— house. Kids are in the back. Windows down. He’s been silent the whole drive but I’m exhausted from a long day of work and happy to stare at a soft sunset sky through the mango trees along the road. Evening ahead.  

We turn onto their road and slow down to avoid potholes. As we round the curve, he clears his throat and tells me, with no preamble, that he thinks we’re not in love, maybe he’s never been in love, or actually loved me.

Oh. Okay. Oh okay. Okay. Oh, okay.

I kept breathing. I sure did. We pulled into the driveway, parked. Kids tumbled out. Did I move? I think so. I must have. Because I’m not in the car now, I’m home, and I’m here, and I’m staying calm and breathing, better than usual.

What else can I do, what else is there to do?

Thursday

Reaching out, getting support. Friends checking in, friends being there, friends listening, friends letting me cry, friends letting me talk, friends sitting with me.

How can there be this much love all around me but he doesn’t love me.

Saturday

Kids slept over with friends. Quiet morning, a long talk. About what? Nothing, nothing, so much nothing. Spinning out. Theories, explanations but not apologies, how men and women are different, how monogamy is selfish, what people need, what he wants, it all comes down to how hurt he is and how misunderstood and how unhappy and I don’t know why I put myself through this.

Because I do care. Because I want to understand. Because, because, because. But there is no reciprocity, only this spiral I get pulled into and hours later I shut the door to the bathroom and lock it and look at myself in the mirror and my eyes looking back are so empty, so empty. 

See also: Share your shit, and Don’t wait for tomorrow - Start now, and Please please please please please please share your big dumb beautiful self with the world

Humans are easy to make fun of.

We are silly creatures. We are so obsessed with being creative that we give ourselves panic attacks, and freeze up. It’s not a problem with skill. No, really, it isn’t. A skill can be gained, learned, improved. A skill is used or not used.

It’s the desire to be creative that fucks it all up.

The worry, the nagging doubt, the uncertainty that we are creative… it locks us up. It makes using our favorite skills an absolutely torturous experience.

No, it’s definitely not a problem with the skill.

It’s a problem with expectations.

Expectations, in general, are annoying and boring and a drag. They slow us down.

But the “I need to be creative” expectation, well, it’s a real winner. A special one. It’s a heavy expectation, but it’s based on a vague goal. It sets a standard we can’t clearly see.

Then it says: Meet that standard or you are not worth shit.

This is like deciding to run a race with no idea how long the race will be, then feeling bad about yourself if you don’t win.

Being creative has gathered all sorts of connotations and associations. It feels like the epitome of what we want to do with these skills we love and have worked hard to gain. We don’t want to sell out! We don’t want to make shoddy stuff. We don’t want to be poor craftspeople. We don’t want to be cheap. We don’t want to be hacks.

But what does it mean to be creative?

That’s the standard we’ve set, but it’s a tough standard to define.

So let me save us all some trouble and define it:

• To be creative is to be someone who creates.

• To create is to bring (something) into existence.

If you bring a truckload of color-by-number Elvis paintings into existence, you have been creative.

If you write twenty-seven haikus about your dog’s vomit, you have been creative.

If you pick up the guitar gathering dust in the corner and pluck a few strings and hum a few notes, you have been creative.

If you write an utterly predictable listicle about the 30 best kinds of cheese with click-bait headlines and poorly chosen GIFs, you have been creative. (That’s actually a listicle I’d be interested in reading, so if you write it… let me know.)

If you open a blank document and write your own name 100 times, you have been creative.

If you make a delicious meal of macaroni and cheese, you have been creative. 

If you build a sculpture out of dried-up Sharpies and junk mail, you have been creative.  

Something did not exist. You made it exist. You are a god.

You have the power.

You created.

This is all there is to it.

I am super proud of you and I wish you would relax and treat all your creative work exactly this way.

You were born creative, you moron.

You don’t have to do anything to be good at it.

You don’t have to do anything else but keep creating.

Sit down (or stand up, whatever) and use your skill to make whatever kind of crap seems interesting to you in the moment.

All the rest: the hazy ideas of originality, the vague standards, the flags we wave, the fancy words we spew, the disconcerting feeling that everything’s been done before…

All of those are trash.

I mean, that disconcerting feeling is spot on. Everything has been done before, one way or another.

Humans have been creating since we figured out how to make pointy sticks.

We’ve been carving stuff on stone, painting shit in caves, sculpting giant things, turning clay into pots, composing epic poems about monsters and battles and love, weaving baskets and stories, and we’ve never stopped.

Why would we? It’s fun. It’s how we invented our civilizations (which, to be fair, are still quite a work in progress, with major bumps on the road; however, we persist).

All of this is being creative.

Listen. This is important, so pay attention.

The value of creativity is not in the quality of what you create. The value is in the act of creativity itself. The value is in the energy you spend, and the fact that you spend that energy bringing something into being rather than tearing something (or someone) apart.

Creativity is a force. It is a power. It is the path toward light and growth. If you are creating, you are not doing other negative stuff with your energy (like destroying or criticizing or sinking into a lethargy so deep that even a new pack of Sharpies won’t pull you out).

I don’t care what you create.

I care that you create. Something. Anything.

I don’t care if anybody likes it. I don’t care if you like it. I don’t care if you like what I create. I get a huge kick out of creating. I’m going to keep doing it. I create all kinds of stuff. A few things maybe are lasting and good and will stick around. Most of them are crap. That’s okay with me.

I like creating and I’m going to keep creating more.

I hope you will, too.

Being creative is part of being human. It’s how you know you’re alive. And it’s how you contribute. How you influence. How you have some input about the civilization we’re currently building. 

I am optimistic by nature. I am optimistic even when I should probably be realistic. I am optimistic to the point that I could be laying on the ground with a knife sticking out of my chest and blood bubbling from my lips and I’d probably be murmuring, “I feel okay, it’s not that bad, just give me a sec,” right up to the moment I died. 

But listen. The world we build is up to us, all of us. And I don’t know a lot about a lot of things, but I do know this: In order to build something, like a better world, we have to believe it can exist. We have to believe it is possible. 

So I am going to keep on being entirely too fucking optimistic, because that is part of what I am here to bring to the world. 

And you? You are here to bring yourself to the world. 

As for me and my house, we will remain optimistic. And I will keep making crap until the day I die. Because it’s not enough to believe. We have to do. We have to make. We have to build.

How professional you are doesn’t matter. The heart of it is what matters. 

Now go make some crap.

This was originally a newsletter back in April 2019 that I sent to maybe 50 people. Anyway I’m closing down the Substack archive and moving the good stuff over here so I brushed this one off and polished it up and took some stuff out and added a bit here and there and anyway, here it is now, again. 

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