I’m going to just come right out and say this, I’ve been struggling. This blog isn’t going to be about how or why, because I’ve already talked about those things. But it’s going to be a promise to myself that next year will be different. It’s going to be different because I won’t let this year continue into that one.
I got sick and had to stop running for a bit, and since the winters are cold in Indiana, I’ll be running in the gym more, but I’m going to keep up with that. The good news is one day I’ll be okay. And that’s what I want to give people at the end of this year, something to look forward to. There’s that quote I’ve said a few times about everything is okay in the end, and if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. But there’s always a moment where we want it to be the end, when we’re definitely not okay, and we desperately want to be.
And that is my firm belief, that we will be okay. We will find a way to maintain contentment, and every now and then feel that pinch of happiness that makes us wonder why we don’t feel that way all the time.
It’s going to be okay. I wish you and yours a happy holiday season, and if the holidays are especially difficult for you, know that you are seen and known and loved. I don’t need to know a thing about you to know you are worth loving. Be safe, keep holding on, and remember that the sun will always rise tomorrow.
Until next time, friends.
******salisbury.fake will return in January 2022*******
While I wish I could claim credit for that phrase in the title, it comes from an article written by Chuck Wendig (I’ll link it below, should you be so inclined to read it). It’s been on my mind recently, just that phrase, because I always hear people saying to chase dreams, and while I agree we should go after worthwhile endeavors (you decide what’s worthwhile, I guess), I think we should instead chase after ourselves.
Not in an “oh-shit-there-I-go-again-better-stop-me,” kind of way, but more of an “I’m-actuallly-kind-of-cool-what-else-have-I-missed-by-hating-myself?” kind of way. I’m not saying it will get rid of the insecurities we plague ourselves with, but once you get past all the reasons you’re terrible, maybe you’ll see you aren’t actually terrible.
I’m not an art success by any stretch of the imagination, but I want to become a watercolor artist of sorts. I want to do tiny paintings, and so I’ve taken steps to start practicing. As well as practicing hand-lettering because I think it’s cool when people do that kind of thing. It takes practice and sometimes I’m so much of a defeatist that when I don’t get something on the first try, it’s suddenly garbage and I don’t want to do it.
Bolting madly at ourselves is a way of saying enough is enough. It’s a way of grabbing hold of your own shoulders, metaphorically, and staring yourself in the eyes and seeing that you aren’t the bile pile you somehow convinced yourself you were.
It’s a challenge. To the things that keep you up at night. To the people who planted the seeds of discord in your heart. It’s a direct refusal to be anything less than who you are and while that sounds so damn simple and stupid out loud, let it sink in. Because we are more than what we let ourselves tell us we are. I believe it wholeheartedly. It’s why I’m still kicking. Literally fighting for myself because I never have and I’m tired of seeing the same disappointment every time I have a set back in my progress.
This is a month I’m focusing on my goals a bit harder. I want to prove to myself that I am capable of changing my habits, changing the things about me that keep me from being who I want to be. I write in my journal about it so often, and I get irritated that I keep slipping back into the “comfort” of who I am right now. Not bad, but not what I want.
I challenge you to do better for yourself. Start doing something that makes you feel real. Hopefully that’s nothing harmful to you or others, but I’m not your mom, so I can’t tell you what to do, really. But you owe it to no one but yourself to start seeing yourself as real, as important. As worth the time. I promise I’m working on it more.
At a desk, the kitchen table, sprawled on the couch, propped up in bed, the dashboard in my car on a lunch break, under a tree at the park, in full view of people so they can see me writing: I’ve done it all. I’m sure you can tell from the title that this post today is all about my creative workspace. I have a couple, and they’re all in the same room, so let me talk to you about them.
When I was house hunting last year, one of the requirements was 3 bedrooms. Not because I have a family or plan to have one, but I wanted a guest room, and an office. Most of my life I’ve never had the space to feel free to make a metaphorical (or literal) “creative” mess. I’ve either confined myself to my bedroom to write, had my desk available, but it functioned as a holder of other things and less like what a desk should be, or I’ve had to use the kitchen table. This isn’t a problem because it’s a lovely thing to have a kitchen table you then have to clear away so you can use it for food. But I still wanted more.
So, when my realtor showed me this house, the master bedroom fit my visions of the perfect space. When I moved in, my sister helped me paint the back wall “Delft pottery” blue, and I’ve been putting up all the things that inspire my creativity. A signed poster from my favorite singer/songwriter, Zac Hanson’s scribble on a piece of notebook paper I had in my bag, Dried flower, my sister’s artwork, a photo of my niece’s foot she took herself, a map of Middle Earth from a very dear friend, and more yet to come. (I’d post a photo of this wall, but I also have photos of my friends and family and I don’t want to expose them to the internet outside of Facebook).
I fully believe in having a dedicated space to be productive. Whether it’s writing or other creative projects, I think it’s important to have a place your brain automatically knows “it’s time to work.” I’ve got two spaces for working, both in the same room, so when I come in here, my mind switches to productive mode. Whether I’m sitting at the art space or at my desk for writing, I am able to focus on the project I want to get done. Today it happens to be a blog post and afterward, I’ll be working on typing up the stuff I’ve written recently (that process is another discussion).
Of course, creativity isn’t limited just to the things I can put on paper. It’s also about growing my mind through reading and visuals. Which brings me to the wall opposite my desk, the one behind me right now. I have my small library set up, and I got an accent chair to curl up in and read.
The last place I have in my office that I was going to try and post a photo of (but WordPress is having a moment, so I won’t this time) is my photo “studio.” It’s really just a half-closet with a card table and some fabric backdrops that I pin to a bulletin board. I mostly use sunlight for now, but one day I’ll have actual lighting for those times I don’t wake up at the sparrow fart of dawn for a good photo.
Sometimes when I think about the life I have now, I wonder if I deserve it, and I think the answer I’d get is a resounding yes from the people who matter to me, and while I appreciate their support and love, one day it’d be nice to believe that for myself. Allowing myself to feel proud of the house I’ve been turning into a home, my home, that’s not narcissism no matter how much my brain tries to tell me it is. It’s important to have places that make you feel like a person, like a worthwhile person. Surrounding yourself with what helps you feel creative, productive, peaceful, that’s important.
I’ve finished my coffee, and I’ve eaten my toast. I’m going to get to work on the day’s projects. Until next time, friends.
We wrap ourselves up in what ifs and could have beens, but do we ever stop and just appreciate what we did get into? I recently got my piano back and I had the thought I wish I’d gone into music in school because I love playing the piano so much. But if I’d gone into music, I wouldn’t have the life I do now. Really. I met some of my best friends in the writing department at university, and I had some pretty amazing professors who changed my life–I wasn’t a very open minded person–and I wouldn’t have written thousands of pages for over ten years.
I did some basic math the other day at work while things were slow. I write three pages–or I try to–every day on my lunch break and I wanted to see how much that would be if I wrote three pages a day for a year. The number is just over a thousand. I could write a thousand pages in a year, which honestly isn’t a lot if you consider the people who write fourteen pages in a day for a year.
But it’s enough, right? What is the limit for being enough? We could quote Mean Girls here and say the limit does not exist, but do we really believe that? Are we capable of understanding how much of enough we are? This is something I struggle with personally and I know so many people who do, too. But when we look at ourselves, really truly look deeply at ourselves, are we sure we believe in the concept of enough?
Unless you’re a genuinely horrible person, you are quite capable of being enough. Even if it’s just for yourself. I can’t wrap my head around that concept. Being enough for myself. I’m working with my therapist on that, but it actually hurts me to see how I’ve been talking to myself for most of my life. We all joke about how we’re dumpster fires rolling down an alley, but to believe it? To believe I’m the scum on the bottom of the dumpster? There’s no way to pinpoint the moment I started believing that about myself, but there is a way to start unraveling that belief.
When I get like this, I find things to ground myself. To re-center my gps, so to speak. And I go back to the concert where I met my favorite singer/songwriter (Noah Gundersen, if you’re interested). I remember my brother asking me to be there when his daughter was born. I remember holding Goose for the first time and weeping immediately because she was so small, and she still is, but she is mighty. I think of the way that small child expands my heart to bursting and it’s all because she calls me Ca with all the enthusiasm of an almost 2 year old. I think of the loves I’ve had, the loss that comes with love sometimes, the books I read, the books I’m writing, my piano, my sister’s laugh and her drive to be there for everyone, my dad’s love of his garden and his smile, my stepmom’s quiet grace and speedy wit, my mother’s strength to be herself– all of it. All of it reminds me that I am not empty. I am not the scum on the dumpster. I am doing impossible things, and I will continue to do impossible things because I am enough.
salisbury.fake 