a note from the present:
I’m sharing this post nearly a month after it was written - a month that has felt both long and short, both comforting and discomforting, in which I have travelled a lot, experienced so much unexpected quality time with those I love, and rediscovered some parts of myself that I’d once feared had gone missing. Initially, “the return” was just about a return to a writing cabin I really love in Alabama. As time has gone by, it’s been about so much more - a return to creativity, a return to hope, a return to connection, a return to self. Already, I’m not the same person who wrote these words. The return, it seems, isn’t really over; it’s only just beginning.
As I write this, I’m sitting on the back deck of my writing cabin in Muscle Shoals, watching golden leaves float on the green water of the Tennessee River. Fleetwood Mac is playing on my aesthetically-pleasing bluetooth radio that still holds a few remnants of summer sand in its crevices. A cup of warmed iced coffee sits next to my keyboard as I type. I can hear church bells in the distance, masked behind the rustling of the trees which provide a welcome breeze in this 93 degree heat. I’ve written more in the last 24 hours than I’ve written in a long time, processed through some things that I’d been taking special care to avoid. I’ve answered a few questions for myself, and raised many more in return.
But deep down, I know that the calm I feel now is only temporary. On Monday, my alarm will go off and I will have nowhere to be. I’ll brew some coffee and watch a little bad reality TV, then walk outside to feed the dog. I’ll give the goats a good pat on the head. And then, I’ll go back inside. I’ll scour the internet for jobs. Hopefully, I’ll feel able to apply to a few. I could have an interview and an offer by the end of the week, or this could be the start of many weeks, even months. It’s the not knowing that kills me the most.
The hardest thing I’ve faced when it comes to being rejected is that it solidifies my deep-seated belief that I might never be enough. Over the last few weeks, I’ve had quite a few exciting opportunities come my way, but without fail, someone better has stepped in. It’s a constant comparison, a constant question: Why not me?
I don’t feel ready to jump back into that game.
Here, by the water, in the sunshine, in the breeze, I know that I AM enough. And I feel confident in that. But out there? With everyone else? Amidst the competition and the road rage and the 3 million dollar houses and the brand new cars? I’m just a quiet girl, standing in front of a large corporation, asking for a chance. And I really hate that. I hate that the world is this way. I hate that jobs as simply titled as Receptionist require a “contagious personality.” And I hate to admit that, hard as I may try, my personality will never be bubbly or captivating or contagious. I’m not a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. But I am a pretty good person. And a damn good employee. Why not take a chance on me?
I know I’m not alone in wondering this. I know I’m not alone in allowing the ways of the world to make me feel worthless.
But that’s not what this weekend is about, so I’ll digress…
It’s nice to know that I had a place like this to come after everything blew up. In a way, I wish I had someone to share these days with, but it’s important for me to be alone, to focus, to meditate, to write. Every once in a while, I go down to the dock and stick my feet in the cool, algae-filled water. I listen for a stray fish jumping behind me. If I look closely, I can see hundreds of them, just several feet away, and I’m glad I don’t feel compelled to get in and swim. Sometimes, it’s important for us to do nothing but take it all in and hope that some meaning comes of it later.
Last night, in the golden hour light, I caught a glimpse of a heron at the very end of the inlet. I love herons. (Water birds in general, I guess.) But it’s herons, they say, who are a sign of good fortune, and because no one else was witness to this beautiful Saturday night sight, I sat there and watched it, standing tall and unmoved, even as a small boat sped by. Alice, I’ll call her.
The short question I’ve journaled over the most these past few days is a deceptively difficult one: Who am I? As in, Who am I when no one else is looking? Or judging? Or expecting? What do I have to offer? How will this feed into what comes next? And isn’t it silly to ask these question as I try to write deeply personal thoughts for public consumption?
I guess my answer is right here, laid out for you in this post:
I’m someone who is transfixed by water, delighted by birds, happy to sit in the sun and sweat and write, even when there’s a heat advisory. I’m someone who lets her iced coffee go warm, then sticks it in the fridge to save for later. I’m someone who has a lot of ideas, but often lacks the focus to get them out on the page. I’m someone who is learning to accept that, because at the very least, I keep trying. I’m someone who is a little brokenhearted right now. And I’m someone who, by the grace of friends and family and goats and maybe even God, will be okay and figure it out eventually.
Like a gift, while writing this, I stumbled on a few words I wrote months ago, hidden in a document of random thoughts and snippets:
Today, I watched the shadow of a cloud creep over the green, sunny hillside across the street. It was breathtaking, this recognition that the darkness we feel can come from some place so far away we rarely fail to recognize it. I love this place, I thought to myself. The beauty, the mystery, the all-encompassing relationship with nature. But I can’t stay. It’s time to go. It’s time to let go.
I wish I could let it all out. I wish I could say everything. But the thing that matters most is that I’m sad. And I’m angry. I’m disappointed. And excited. And yet, this is actually what I asked for. I’m on the precipice of something I’ve never encountered, and hopefully, with that, comes something truly great.
I think I deserve it. I think you do, too. This life is too dang short to settle for anything less.