Taking the Leap

I am joyfully and terrifyingly in the throes of seriously planning my escape from

the day job with an early retirement.

The vacillation is receding, and I can acknowledge the reality of what it is I’m actually scheming.  I know what I desperately want, but I also know what I built and achieved over the last couple decades; how grueling, hard and rewarding that was too, the sacrifices it took.  And now I’m just going to walk away? 

If all goes according to plan – yup – that’s exactly what I intend to do (she says with a scream barely suppressed in her throat, threatening to erupt and terrify the neighbors, causing her son to once again approach her as he would a mad dog).

This is indeed an adjustment phase.  It’s a letting go of who I was, who I

struggled so hard to become.  That’s no small thing.  It’s not just a matter of the job.  It’s daunting to know I am letting go of everything I was once so passionately excited about, that I reveled in throughout the process.  I truly loved my journey.  And this decision heralds its demise.  I overlooked that part.  You can’t have a re-birth without dying first.  Duh.  And dying – news flash – is painful, monumental – it requires processing the obligatory stages.  So where am I –

what stage?  Anger, denial, depression, bargaining – I can see them all so clearly, and I’ve touched them all, traveling freely between them.  I can also see acceptance on the horizon. 

But ‘acceptance’ is so much more difficult.  It requires mourning and grieving first, to work towards the acceptance.  And I’m still ‘in it' right now, right in the

disgusting belly of the beast with all that acid churning, trying to break me down and apart, absorb me into its diseased system.  I say again, ‘I have given at the office.  No more.’ 

This requires giving up.  Giving up is also known as acceptance and the thought of no longer engaging in battle is very relieving, freeing, wonderful.  This must include not fighting myself as well though, fighting to hold on, to somehow be all things – a foot in this world, a foot in that, not letting go of anything.

It feels like a trapeze act.  I have something securely in my hands, keeping me from falling, keeping me aloft.  But if I keep holding on to it I’ll go nowhere;

safe, but swinging mindlessly back and forth.  Or, I can let go and leap.  Build up momentum on the swing where I am, to get me where I want to go next, to push my own boundaries.  Who wants to see someone just swinging back and forth?  Who wants to be someone swinging back and forth?  I have to make this next leap.  Use the

momentum I’ve built, then let go, trusting that the next bar will be there for me, that I’ve set it up carefully enough, that I can use all my faith and courage, the confidence in myself to leap in a free fall and trust – me.  I am ready to turn and grab that new bar at that new height – see what it has to offer, see what tricks I can do there, where I ride it, how I can ride it, what I can accomplish on it, how much fun I can have on it. 

In the meantime – well, I’m just going to carry on.  I find myself engaging more in the life I’m newly building.  I’m in writing groups, entering contests, keeping with this blog even.  I live intimately with my novel.  And on the other side, I find little ways throughout the day to let go a bit more, pry my own fingers from the bar; acknowledge the little deaths, mourn them, let them go.

I don’t know if this will be the quickest eternity of waiting, or if it will never

actually pass and I’ll find myself stuck in a Tarantino version of “Groundhog’s Day.”  I have more questions than answers.  But the plan – ah the plan – is

solid.  And if all goes according to that plan, in just over a year I will be happily ensconced in some shack, somewhere, writing my still ticking heart out. 

And I just can’t wait.

Real Writing

I am fully aware, intellectually as well as viscerally, that writing – real writing – is work; grueling, punishing, hard work.  I don’t think I’ll ever be one who can find

the joy that surely must exist in the act of writing.  For me, it’s paired behaviorally with feelings of panic – the words escaping me before I can get them down; dread – the words not coming at all; fear – the words that do arrive are trite and amateurish, pathetic, bad, wrong, invalid, exposing me as a charlatan wanna-be.

Do you remember “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” by Richard Bach?  It was all rage of its time.  The profundity I took away

from that author and his works wasn’t the hung-over ideals of non-conformity and following one’s true path, but the author’s note accompanying his next book, “Illusions” in which he wrote in part:

I do not enjoy writing at all.  If I can turn my back on an idea, out there in the dark, if I can avoid opening the door to it, I won’t even reach for a pencil.  But once in a while there’s a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, “I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.” 
 
That testament has stayed with me almost verbatim all these years.  It felt heretical, traitorous.  And it gave me wild hope.  Maybe being a writer didn’t require the one size fits all mold I had cast in cement in my mind, upon which I pounded until my fists were bloody, begging admission, yet fleeing whenever I affected a crack in the facade.  There was at least one other soul out there that had the same reaction to writing that I did.  And he was a real writer.

I get that the way around is always through.  To just do it, plow through, doggedly, resolutely.  Hard won satisfaction of accomplishment and reinforcement always follow.  But so often I'm seduced by the lure

of shiny objects; the perfect alignment of all things ‘writerly’ before I can really write.  The perfect desk, the perfect pen, notebook, laptop.  The ideal space, my own office with French doors and a view.  Sufficient time and luxury to devote, having to be retired before I can actually write.  Everything and more “Until.”

These epic battles require acknowledgement of the small victories, of any progress, any territory wrenched from the

the strong-arm grip of the enemy.

Well over a year ago I began arising at 5:00 a.m. so that I could have time to write.  I reinforced

that grueling feat, ritualized it, and it became its own reinforcement and I haven’t missed a morning since of at least some allotted sacred time.  I have created a rarefied bubble of space and solitude.  I bring my fuzzy red blanket to my favorite chair, my reading chair with the incredible view, and curl up cozy and safe in the dawn.  I bring coffee in a special cup.  I go to sleep every night in contented anticipation, react badly when I don't get up as early as I could to optimize every precious moment.

 And I write.  “Free” writing, right-brain writing – whatever you want to call it – without the computer, no typing, longhand only with special pens in special notebooks.  I just started making my own notebooks actually, to augment even more the specialness, the ritualized magic I’ve created.  If you had asked me a year ago if I would ever arise at 5:00 a.m. for anything I would have thought you a provocative fool.  Now, I seriously can’t imagine having this space and time torn from me, for that’s what it would take and I would fight to keep what I built.

So - I can craft these impossible things, accomplish these feats.  But - that relentless voice still nags; this is not "real" writing, not the authentic and arduous work I really should be doing.

 And to that bitch of a voice I am finally turning and saying ‘shut the hell up you old, worn-out and ridiculous harpy.’  How’s that for tempting the fates?  I have to find a way to do the hard work, yes, I know.  But I can also see irrefutable proof of advancement, and I have missives from behind enemy lines that there is in fact an underground; that I can not only get there, but I can choose my own route and method.
 
I feel like I’ve fired the first shot across the bow, reigniting an ancient battle.  I come to the fight with hard-won wisdom, refreshed resources.

I'm ready.  Bring it on.

The Other Day Job

How do you do it?  I truly don’t get it.  Life is maintenance.  I have a ten mile long list of things “to do”, mostly for the house, and I am completely

overwhelmed.  I try to talk myself through it, write my morning pages and vent, center myself back upright, preach to myself, channel Zen wisdom, and come to allow that I can only do one thing at a time.  But here’s the catch – when you do manage to stick to that path, the rest of your world goes to hell. 

I took a few days off to get a major house project accomplished before friends

and family descended in a couple weeks.  I made myself a deal – I would only do that one huge project and not worry about anything else at all.  One thing at a time, right?

So what happens?  I’m getting through the project all right, which of course is taking about five times longer than anticipated, but now everything else is just crap.  My garden is completely overgrown and has been invaded by unknown

burrowing creatures.  I think it’s an evil mutant squirrel.  Half my plants have been eaten by him, the rest by the birds.  I haven’t watered enough and when I did so this morning a geyser erupted from the irrigation line where the little

asshole had chewed through.  And yes – I mean that – he is an asshole.  He chose the one location where I couldn’t get to the line, where it goes under an installed drain with cement all around.  The little bastard.  He diabolically and cleverly chose that precise position purposefully and he is definitely calling me out. 

The house is a disaster.  I am not tidy nor particularly organized when I do a

project like this and I make a huge mess that requires three times the amount of work to clean up than if I had done the proper prep work in the beginning. 

I’m only halfway through the project, if that, and I’m a mess, the house is a mess, my life is a mess.  I don’t have any clean clothes, I’ve neglected bills and groceries and my son is carefully avoiding me.

So much for "one thing at a time."  Is that sage advice really only for those with servants or something?  It sounds really good on paper, but seriously – what do you do about everything else that demands attention?

My options as I see them are:

• Strike a deal with the squirrel mafia for some sort of time share arrangement
  

• Do it all, don’t let anything go, and have another heart attack.  At least I’ll get a justifiable break and somebody else to do the laundry

• Drink heavily until I don’t see the mess
  

• Surrender the yard to the squirrel  – one less thing to do
  

• Move

• Go live in a yurt

• Give up all my belongings and become a wise street prophet preaching the evils of materialism and government conspiracies controlling the masses through possessions. 
  

• Drink more heavily

I’m open to suggestions here.  Anybody?  

I can also just sit here and write gleefully about it all and feel like I’m “doing” something productive.  At some point one of my characters will surely sit in squalor, overwhelmed, close to giving up.  That’s it – I’m actually doing research here!  Now I just have to research and compose a character that has a cleanliness fetish and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

A Rest Stop Interlude

I’m pulling off into a rest stop.  It’s not a roadblock; I haven’t been detoured, nor am I stalled at a fork in the road.  I’ve been driving long hours through

stormy weather, while my destination remains elusive, ever on the horizon, always just one more day’s drive away.

Every journey must include rest stop interludes.  These oases stand out on the landscape as concrete evidence of the expectation that a rest is essential.  They

are designed to cater to the needs of any journey, providing a sanctioned time and place to pause, to rest with like-minded travelers, on like-minded pilgrimages, share stories, take repast.  Here you can find a spot of shady grass, an improbably frozen ice cream sandwich that lasts to the end in the heat.  Here you can eavesdrop on traveling conversations, be a part of an ephemeral community not found anywhere else.

There is palpable relief in such a sanctioned break, your fingers finally unclenching from the wheel.  There is the sheer pleasure of rolling out a map on the hood of the car, gathering round in anticipation to see what lies ahead and

to see the tangible proof of accomplishment in how far you’ve come already.  In these places, in these precious singular moments in time, we have everything.  We’re in the moment – the present – where we can pause and relax and allow ourselves the full pleasure of that moment – a well-deserved break.

As we rest, we’re allowed to reflect on the past.  There is already nostalgia about that part of the journey and we can laugh now about the good and the bad; the odd things and people we experienced, things we wouldn’t have ever seen had we not embarked.  Safe now in this haven we can revel and boast, share travails with those who understand, our fellow travelers.  We can learn from our travels, inform our future course.  Like those shortcuts that looked so good on the map, but added grueling long hours to the journey on treacherous roads and incited

bickering in the back seat.

These rest stops also hold our future, the road before us with the Christmas morning excitement and anticipation of what’s to come, what’s imminent.  Possibilities abound, the world literally at your fingertips on that map laid out before you, where anything can and will unfold.  It’s waiting just for you, to fuel up and fill up, to empty out, refreshed and ready to hit the wide open road once more.

But right now, right here – there is the shade, the place where time stops, leaving the moment in between, where it all converges, where you truly have it all.  It is a moment in which to fully acknowledge and appreciate your

monumental journey.  So I have pulled over.  I can take stock and I can allow myself to rest and reflect, to see where I’ve been, to see the paths surely before me.  In the past several years I have traveled non-stop in work, relocated, sold my home of over 20 years, survived familial crises and passings, and one pissed off heart.  I’ve run so hard and blindly I smashed headlong into the blazing sun

and fell back down burnt and bloodied.  I chose a new home and toiled with immovable boulders in order to insert myself there and claim my space.  I learned to be still and when I did, deeply buried, patiently waiting pieces of myself emerged, coalesced.  I reached out and found waiting hands and haunts and I began growing again, finding a solid foundation below and infinite stars above.

And now, here I am.  There are remarkable journeys behind me, their stories tucked safely away in the trunk and the future awaits with

stories yet to be lived and told.  It’s all right here, right now, in this pause in between.