5 am again

It's 5 am. Again. Every day, the sun rises and every day, I try and write.

Today, I am working on this blog and on a long project about my trip to France to see my long lost cousin a few years back. I always have a few writing pans in the fire.

My book took so long because of my process. Typically, I write stand alone pieces. It's just my thing. The last few years of my life were putting my child and YA pieces together and synthesizing them into one long work. It was so fucking hard. It was probably the most difficult thing I've ever done. At times, I didn't think I could get it done. 

So instead, during Covid, I started a monthly podcast interviewing other writers which was actually a good thing. It inspired me and was more productive creatively then just cleaning my house to distract myself from the arduous task at hand and my fear of failure. 

This summer, with health issues looming and anxiety about my own mortality, I would chant, "I'm the little writer who could." Then I would hum the ant song about perseverance to myself (one that I first heard on Laverne & Shirley as a kid) and sit down every weekend, butt in chair, and work. It took a few months, but not as long as I thought once I focused. I just did it. 

In August/September, I edited it one last time, took out more repetition, wrote an afterword and threw in my poetry at the end for good measure. My editor/publisher was happy I was done. He'd been waiting so long. He's a good person, a fantastic editor and writer, and most importantly, patient as a saint.

That book, Tales of an Inland Empire Girl, comes out in January. It was finished through a combination of real fear that I would not ever "finish", coupled with the realization that I had just published a chapbook about public defense without over working it. 

What seemed so hard at first, was just me standing in my own way. Over a decade, I'd written the pieces. And edited them over and over. Workshopped them. Agonized. So the hard work was done. I just needed to let it sing. 

Fear is like that. Fear of success is a real thing. As long as you're still "workin" on something, no one can criticize it. "It's still a draft," I would always laugh. "My albatross."

Well, it's no longer my albatross. 

It's real, it's finished (after a final proof) and it's lovely. Nothing is perfect you see. But this book, I know this, this book is as good as it gets for me. I am satisfied. And I realized that, in the end, that's all that fucking matters.

Awake

I feel as if I'm finally awake. These last weeks recovering have made me see life differently. I appreciate the moments.

Something has also happened with my relationships. They feel truer and deeper. 

Perhaps, showing my own vulnerability has made me more human to my family and friends. At times, I can be a bit much. I know this.

And sometimes, I get stuck. Last night, or I guess this morning technically because it was 2 am, I awoke and crawled out of bed. I've had issues in the middle of the night since my surgery. I sat in the guest room thinking, which is always dangerous.

Chewbacca licked my face and so I kissed his head. Then I thought to myself, get outta your head girl. Just start the doing again. Be in the moment and be free from anxiety. Write, work, love and live. That's your goal. Your mantra.

What I've awakened to is the realization that life is now. It's everything. Even now, writing this, I'm here. I'm doing. I'm being. And as long as I'm me, and true to who I am, nothing else matters. 

The body is our form, but our soul, our consciousness, that's who we are and why we're here. So I'm just gonna be here. Right now. 

Can you "see" me? I hope you do because I see you. 

Bright life big world

It's amazing what feeling better health wise can do to one's mood. I'm feeling hopeful, excited and eager to get my life back.

Before my surgery, I don't think I realized how much pain had ruled my life. Every day had been a struggle for so long that I was accustomed to the pain. I had acclimated to it in a way. Then one day, everything fell apart. My surgery was the result. 

For weeks after surgery, the pain was even worse. It was the hardest physical test I've ever gone through. I fought to get on the right pain medications and once I was properly medicated, I began to heal. 

That healing process is still ongoing but I'm beginning to see the light. I'm chomping at the bit to move on and start my life again. I'm missing it all. My job, my friends, my family and my artistic endeavors.

Yet, I have to tell myself, take it easy and slow down. Because whenever I do try and push, I take a few steps back. 

This will be all better soon, I tell myself. You're almost ready, you're so close, but you need to give yourself a little space. Time. Just heal. Breathe. Rest. You're almost there.

When my life resumes, I have decided to pull back on some things. Before, I was doing too much. Way too much. Running myself ragged really. So I've decided that when I do finally go out into the sun again, I'm not gonna do so much. No more striving. 

Instead, I will focus on my family, my career as a deputy public defender and my books. And maybe do a podcast or two. But less. Quality not quantity. That's a lot, so everything else may have to go. The radio show was a dream come true for me. And it did come true if only for a few episodes. But I'm pulling back.

Now don't go thinking I'm going into a shell. I'm not. I'll be out and about doing my job and my art. I'm going back into the world full-time in a couple weeks. My second book drops in January.

But this "new" life, I say new because it feels that way, will be different. It will be full and colorful, all in technicolor. Yes it will be. But it will also be a long film with a focused narrator who knows her worth and who gives full energy to all she does and who knows how to pull back.

What's most important is that I've realized that I love my life. I have so much. I'm lucky. This experience has made me realize that. I don't want to be stuck in bed. Plus, I've watched everything on Netflix and Hulu (including rewatching numerous seasons of Top Chef). 

Truth is, I want to live. I want to live big. 

What I know now is that I want to live a bright and beautiful life my friends. And I will. Promise.

Warming

I'm warm. Snuggled in bed. Relaxing. Healing. Breathing.

It's been an interesting year. So much has happened and I've been forced to look at myself and my life and think, why am I here?

I know why. To write. To live. To love my husband, my family and my dogs (of course). 

Soup helps. Especially the one I get delivered, butternut squash. It's soothing. The taste reminds me that simplicity is best. 

When I'm fully healed, my goal is to do less. To focus on the writing rather than the running. To see the world. But to be me. Just be me. 

And stay warm. Happy. Content. Always.

Being

To be or not to be. The choice is to be. You see, I've spent my entire life doing. Now I want to live on the narrow path of being (paraphrasing Eckhart Tolle here).

Meditation has helped me conquer my overactive mind. It still runs in circles at times. But when that happens, I breathe and focus on my body and it dissipates.

Pain has actually helped me to conquer some of my restlessness. Being forced to breathe and just lay, and relax, has been helpful. 

Creativity, at least for me, has always stemmed from somewhere deep in my soul. It always emerges and if I can capture it, and sit and write, it just comes out, almost fully formed. Why writing is my medium, I do not know, it just is.

I spent most of my life doing. Trying to get to this place or that place, figuratively and literally, for fifty years. But now, the thing I've realized, my epiphany for today, is that I am right where I need to be. 

That's not to say that goals are meaningless. They're important. But what I'm saying is that the striving, and the reaching and yearning always for more more more, that has gone away. I'm just happy to be. Right here and right now. Doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. 

Being me. Just me.

3 am October 2022

It's 3 am. I lay in our guest room listening to Chewbacca the shih tzu snore. I came in here to avoid waking Adrian up. I'm in so much pain, But breathing through it. Inhale in. Exhale out.

Pain is a hard thing to write about it. Adjectives do not suffice. Agonizing. Brain numbing. Unbearable. But I'm bearing it. 

Verbs capture it better. Shivering. Clenching. Writhing. Weeping.

Or maybe add some nouns too. 

Wet towel. Crumpled blankets. Curled up body.

This form of mine will get better. I know that. Pain is real but it too will pass. 

I urge myself to remember. Remember. Even this moment, lying on my side in bed writing these words, squinting at my phone, is precious.

Every moment matters. The big, the small, the adjectives, the verbs and the nouns.

Here are more nouns. 

Family and friends. Cards. Flowers. Well wishes. A back rub.

With some adjectives. 

A hot cup of tea. A warm compress. A golden light.

With a verb.

Sleeping. 

Let's put this all together now. We will get there eventually. I promise. This is not wishful thinking. This is wish filled thinking.

Here goes: 

She lies in bed writing, dog by her side, warm and comfortable, and puts down her phone, finally managing to drift away into slumber. 

Good night. 

A lightness of being

Lately, my posts have been dark. Yet, there is so much light. So right now, I have decided to focus on the light.

There's a warm glow upstairs. My dog sleeps next to me and I'm snuggled in a warm house, in a warm bed. 

Since my surgery, my husband has been caretaking. I've been unable to do much, it hurts to move, yet I'm well tended to. He's even putting up with me rewatching old seasons of Top Chef. He's so good at cooking for me (though right now my diet consists mostly of fruit) and watching over me. He's worried and attentive and I'm thankful that most of my major issues have happened when he's asleep. 

I have everything a girl needs, including, thank god, medications to ease the pain which is admittedly intense. 

My mind is clear. So clear. It's as if I'm seeing everything in sharp focus for the first time. I've thought about the stress over the last two years and have realized that the best thing to happen to me was this surgery. It forced me to slow down and take a much needed break from it all. 

Covid has made many of us question why we do what we do and the cost of it all. It has made us realize what is important and has shown us there is a light at the end of all of this.

That light is everything. It illuminates your character. It's the soft glow from a lamp that will show you the way home. Because in the end, home is what matters more than anything.  In some ways, it's all that matters my friends.