Inner World, Massage Tales

The Unarmed Opponent

I am doing battle with words and today I am the unarmed opponent.

 

It is a slow time of year for my massage practice, and I am finding myself with long stretches of unstructured time.  The perfect situation to get a little ahead on the blog posts, maybe re-write my website, dig deep into my long-term writing projects.

 

And yet today I faced down my morning pages and all that came out was blather.  Isn’t this the point of morning pages, though?  That is what I told myself, and so I closed the journal and came to the computer hoping all the detritus was out and the good stuff was rising to the surface.

 

I’m looking in the water and it’s still murky.

 

A few days ago I saw a movie with my partner — Ralph Breaks the Internet.  It was silly and goofy and had some really sophisticated moments, like this scene where one of the main characters finds herself in a room full of Disney Princesses.  The Princesses tell her that she needs to look into water and eventually she will spontaneously start singing about her deepest and most desired dream.  It’s a funny moment that pokes fun at the structure of Disney movies.  Last night, I was talking with my partner, and he joked about holding a cup of tea in front of me so I could sing about my deepest and most desired dream.

 

This morning I am here with a cup of tea, doing unarmed battle with words, about to dive into a project that is actually my dream, I think.  And yet no song is forthcoming.  I look deep into the tea cup, and all that comes to me is: “location-independent lifestyle.”

 

Dreams are terrifying.

 

I have built, am building, this massage practice, deeply rooted in the community where I live.  I chose this community after a couple of decades in Chicago, because I thought I could build a long-term life here.  I love my work.  I love my clients.  I even love the alien-looking terrariums my office mate has put all around our space.  But more and more, I am feeling the need to get back on my trampoline.

 

action air balance beach
Photo by Rafael on Pexels.com

For a little while, I had a trampoline life.  I would travel, gather experiences, challenge my comfort zone, then come back home long enough to regroup (do laundry) and then go out into the world again.  It wasn’t always a trip to an exciting international destination, but still, it was getting away to a place where all of my stuff fit into a small bag.  I got so good at packing light and gathering all of what kept me alive.

 

am doing unarmed battle with words because, among other things, I have not ventured out.  I am aware, also, that venturing out is more than physical removal from my home city.  It is taking a chance with my mind as well.  What kinds of new words can I generate if they don’t have the new thoughts to back them up?  

 

My practice is quiet these weeks, the days can be as slow as I want them to be.  I am seeking out mental and physical challenges to re-arm myself with experiences that I can then turn into words.  Eventually, I see this growing and changing into a location-independent lifestyle, happily back on the trampoline.  For now, I am taking these weeks to sharpen up and prepare.

 

I am going to make myself another cup of tea and sing about it.

Inner World, Thoughts on the profession

A Day Late

I made myself a promise a little over a year ago.  I promised that I would write a blog post every week.  Every single week.  I chose Tuesday as the day I would publish the post, and I promised not to let my internal editor sabotage everything.  I wasn’t going for great literature.  I was going for consistency, showing up, and just doing the work.

So how am I doing?

Well, I missed a week — the Tuesday of the midterm elections.  This week, I am a day late. My internal editor is as robust as ever, although slightly more likely to wait to speak until spoken to.

I am calling this a win.

I’ve heard people quote “the past is prologue,” meaning that what happened in the past predicts what the future will be. More and more, I think this is ridiculous.

The past isn’t prologue.  The past isn’t predictor.  The past is —- past.

close up of woman holding a hamster
Photo by Rudolf Jakkel on Pexels.com

Sure.  There are hints and whispers and echoes of the past everywhere.  Every time I see a mouse, for example, I have the overwhelming echo of the time my upstairs neighbor’s pet gerbil chewed through the ceiling and dropped onto my bed.  *shudder*

But, just because I hear the past whispering in my ear, doesn’t mean I need to do what it says.

See, in the past, if I dropped off a plan I made for myself, I just kept dropping until I decided the plan wasn’t that important in the first place.   I dropped back into the story of The Girl Who Does Things 3/4 of the Way.  The story of my life.

Except now I know, I am the writer.  I tell the story and I’m telling it differently.  You can hiccup and still breathe.  You can stumble and still keep walking.  I can come to this blog a day (or a week) late and still get back on track.

I’m going to attempt now to connect this back to the thing I’ve been doing while procrastinating this blog post — watching auditions from the X Factor on YouTube. I have heard, over and over, judges saying things like “natural talent,” “born performer,” or “gifted.”  I find this deceptive and slightly dangerous.

Sure, some people may be born with an affinity, but talent?  That is pure, uncomplicated, consistent, work.  Showing up, consistently, and working at it.  Being frustrated or tired or unmotivated and doing it anyway.  Missing a practice (or a deadline) and getting back into it anyway.

So, here I am, with my imperfect ideas and slightly burnt coffee just showing up.  A day late, but here.

How are you showing up for yourself today?

Inner World, Oncology Massage

Into the Rabbit Hole

I have a writing task.  A big one.  I am choosing to take the advice of The Little Book of Talent and keep the biggest plans secret.  It’s not important to know exactly what the task is, just that it is.

 

I have been a writer since second grade.  Our teacher told us to write a Halloween story, and I went to town.  I had elaborate costumes, a haunted house, multiple plots coming together, and a hero facing certain ruin by ghosts.  I also had what I later learned was a deus ex machina — an ending dropped from the sky where the hero of the story got to survive and get away all in one piece.

 

Okay, it was a ghost extinguisher.  I gave my hero a ghost extinguisher.

 

So, maybe plot-wise, it wasn’t my best effort.  But for sheer love of the process of writing, it was enough to keep me hooked for years.  I can still feel what it was like to sit at the dining room table and write that story.  How I could hardly move my pencil fast enough.

 

As many things do, writing became both easier and harder as I grew up.  I learned about plot and foreshadowing.  About the nuances of character and exposition.  I also started writing essays, nonfiction.  I practiced translating facts into a readable story.  I found that this worked best for me if I had piles of facts and supporting facts that I could pick and choose from in the process of writing.

 

I felt most comfortable drawing from a deep well.

 

close up of rabbit on field
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Which brings me to today —  my writing task, based in fact and research and looming large over my life for the next several months.  I am breaking it into smaller pieces, and finding that each piece comes with its own rabbit hole attached.  These pieces sit before me like tiny cyclones, and if I’m not careful I could get sucked into the vortex of each one, disappear for a while, and come back with not even a pair of ruby slippers to show for it.

 

Today I am perched on the edge of a rabbit hole, trying not to dive in.  If it weren’t so fascinating, if every piece of information didn’t lead to twelve others, if I could just write one crappy sentence —

 

There it is.  The thing I keep banging up against is the first sentence.  More precisely, allowing the first sentence to be crappy and moving forward anyway.  Because, as I used to tell my writing students, revision is more than half of the writing process.

 

It may help me to look at this craft the same way I look at the craft of a massage.  Prepare.  Deeply and thoroughly prepare.  Then, when the person is in front of me, empty my mind and trust that the training is there.  Right where I left it.  Just make contact and go.

 

Just write that crappy first sentence and go.  Forward.

Inner World, Lost Literary Files

Poised for Conflict

I am ready to learn, and I am ready for a fight.  It’s only because of the past, which follows me around everywhere in a lumpy, psychic bag and sometimes tries to convince me that the past can predict the future.

Let me fill you in on one of my past lives.  No, not the one where I was Cleopatra (why was EVERYONE Cleopatra??), I mean one of the careers I dove into before I settled into my life as a massage therapist who writes stuff.  Right out of college, I picked up my Lit degree and stumbled into graduate school.  The academic, writing life was my object.  To be surrounded by books and words and ideas, all day, every day.  I had my grandiose ideas and a book-length work of fiction, so I signed up for a Long Form Creative Writing class.

Have I mentioned that I lasted only through the M.A. program and no longer?

grayscale photography on concert
Photo by Thibault Trillet on Pexels.com

In that class, we were instructed to sit quietly and listen to critique of our work.  No comments, no answers to questions, no subtly suggestive noises of any kind.  When it came time for my work to be critiqued in class, I spent a couple of hours totally silent, listening to people talk.  After about thirty minutes, I started to notice that little workshop dance where everyone tries to say the next most insightful thing.  At this point, they have exhausted all the truly helpful information and have slipped into “perform for the Professor” mode.  It was not subtle.  It exhausted me.

About a week later, I had my mandatory one-on-one meeting with the Professor.  I would have been happy skipping this face time, but he insisted that everyone schedule their time or risk failing the class.  So, I scheduled the time (in between the two classes I was teaching and the mountains of reading and writing for my other classes.)  And the Professor decided to answer his phone five minutes into our time, and hold a conversation which lasted until about a minute before the end of our appointment.  All the while, he signaled me to “stay,” “just wait a moment.”  I gained nothing, but I certainly lost any remaining respect I had for the Professor as a teacher of humans.

So, my most recent experience with workshops has not been pleasant.  It has been armored, to say the least.  And this is the lumpy, psychic bag of my past that I am attempting to leave behind in July.  I am headed to Wildacres Retreat to spend a week learning and workshopping with no distractions but the gorgeous mountains of North Carolina.  Whenever I think about the retreat as a whole, I am ready to learn.  Whenever I think about sitting around a table with my fellow writers, listening to their thoughts on my work, I am ready for a fight.

I have submitted my manuscript and made all the necessary travel reservations.  My work now is unpacking the baggage and leaving “ready for a fight” behind, in the past, in that Professor’s office where it belongs.