Mine is a charmed life, largely built around shame. I'm ashamed of the laundry piles and dishes that I'm too lazy to finish in a timely fashion. I'm ashamed of my as of yet unproven ability to land and hold a "real job". I'm ashamed of my discontent in this quiet little Nebraskan town. I'm ashamed of my delight in drinking, with the numb buzzy feeling in my lips and the dissapointed frown on my Alien's face when I'm drinking. And now, more than ever, I'm ashamed of the projects I've left unfinished. There are four costumes, two quilts, one afghan, a squid hat, and a scarf in various states of incompletion laying about my home. My computer contains the skeletons of not one, not two, but three separate novels, with naught but a dozen pages of writing between them.
When you walk the path of the suburban Nebraskan housewife, you find yourself at a crossroads of projects. Pinterest is your planning ground. Facebook is your leaderboard. Competition, albeit generally friendly, abounds if only in my mind. This one cooks three course meals. That one sews historically accurate costumes. The others have started small businesses, plant gardens, do woodworking, publish texts, and (most amazing of all) raise children. When viewed en masse, the Facebook conglomerate puts my small contributions to shame.
Time and again I must remind myself that what I am seeing is just that: a conglomerate. Each of my friends and family members only do a handful of these things. One might have excellent culinary and parenting skills, but wouldn't be able to tell one end of a drop spindle from the other. Some have a vast knowledge of literature and an incredible selection of celebrity connections, but no idea how to keep a tomato alive. The whole is intimidating because it does not truly exist.
I was scanning the social leader board yesterday, when I came across this song lyric:
"I can see I'm blessed if I don't obsess over what I'm not."
This pinned down the feeling of shame for me. I was so preoccupied with what I hadn't done that I was blind to what I could. I can write. I can sew. I can cook, and bake, and crochet. And I can do all those things without complaining about how I can't do those other things as long as I set aside time each day to work on the ones that I'm not vehemently opposed to. Except the laundry. That really needs done regaurdless of how vehemently opposed to it I am.
At the end of the day, I have needy puppy, a malcontent cat, a warm home, a full stomach, and a husband who has promised to provide for me all the days of my life. If I stop obsessing over the things I can't do, it really is a charmed life.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Caffine+ Fear = Ambition.
I have been heard saying that caffeine guarantees 80% more work shall be completed. Unfortunately, it is difficult, nay, impossible to choose what work shall be completed. It's like startling a cat. You don't know where the cat is going to go, but it's going to get there, and it's getting there NOW. Possibly with some damage to your living quarters (not unlike a caffeinated Cactus). I'll do laundry, bake, organize receipts, venture out of doors; you never know where you'll find me if I'm left to my own devices on caffeine. But during my career as an English major, a directed beam of productivity was required. Frequently. The tiny people who run my brain set themselves to work and delved into dark magics. From their studies, they found a single mechanism capable of targeting a caffeinated productivity explosion. And that mechanism was Fear.
Fear alone is worthless for completing anything. Somewhere along the line, my biochemistry dropped the "fight or flight ball", and clung to "freeze" as though its life depended upon it. So when a heap of work is thrown at my feet (see: midterms), my body shoots a burst of adrenaline through me just like any red-blooded college kid's immune system should. But instead of tackling the work head on or drinking myself into a stupor (the favored responses of my peers) my default response was this: .
Nothing.
Not writing papers.
Not reading.
Not buying groceries.
Not showering.
(Sorry)
No activity that wasn't strictly necessary for biological survival was performed. This did mean that when my living quarters reached hoarder levels of uncleanliness that I did eventually get up and grab a broom. And when the larder was depleted, I had to run out and buy ramen and Alien food. But aside from these tasks, I would literally shut down. Thinking about the pile of work triggered panic attacks, so I did my best to avoid the subject entirely. Which only fed the beast.
The workload became a living breathing thing. It followed me everywhere. It sucked the fun out of my hobbies, like a happiness leech. It judged my lack of motivation. And whenever I confronted it, it would howl at me, like a deranged wolverine, until I ran to the couch in tears and consumed a full pint of ice cream.
I could fail, I told myself. It's not hard. I've done it before. I could fail and waste all of my parent's time and money. And that fear kept me on the couch until Alien came home. He would remind me that the work-beast was just a pinata wearing a scary mask. If I beat it into small enough pieces, I could burn them individually until the Mexican god of paper mache donkeys showered me with sweets. I may or may not have played with pinatas correctly as a child.
Finally, once I had segregated the workload into teeny bits, I was able to kick the beast once a day until it coughed out a B at the end of the semester. And then I would breathe a sigh of relief, fall asleep, wake up halfway through the next semester, and repeat the cycle.
But Fear and Caffeine... TOGETHER...
Scratch that, it has to be Caffeine, then Fear. Fear amplified by caffeine is something no living being should have to witness. But Caffeine, tempered by Fear, created a lazer of work-ethic, capable of churning out six pages of work a day. Altered levels of Caffeine and Fear were never able to adjust the ultimate number six. That is simply the amount of coherent English sentences I am capable of churning out in twenty-four hours.
And now, something strange has happened.
I have lost access to Fear.
Alien supports both of us on his income. I am blissfully unemployed, allowed to spend my time as I wish. I can crochet, game, sew, do housework, in whatever order I wish, for whatever duration I fancy. Caffeine is still more than capable of ensuring 80% work completed. But without the focus of Fear, I am left goalless.
So until I have a daunting project to avoid, or a T-Rex standing behind me, all beady eyes, granny glasses, and a short threatening ruler, nattering at me to write another blog post, I'm not certain how to ensure continued updates here.
Maybe I'll finally learn how to set goals.
Maybe I'll learn how to write without a muse, like a good author.
And maybe, sadly, this chapter of my book will close.
And maybe I'll go shopping for a T-Rex in granny glasses.
Fear alone is worthless for completing anything. Somewhere along the line, my biochemistry dropped the "fight or flight ball", and clung to "freeze" as though its life depended upon it. So when a heap of work is thrown at my feet (see: midterms), my body shoots a burst of adrenaline through me just like any red-blooded college kid's immune system should. But instead of tackling the work head on or drinking myself into a stupor (the favored responses of my peers) my default response was this: .
Nothing.
Not writing papers.
Not reading.
Not buying groceries.
Not showering.
(Sorry)
No activity that wasn't strictly necessary for biological survival was performed. This did mean that when my living quarters reached hoarder levels of uncleanliness that I did eventually get up and grab a broom. And when the larder was depleted, I had to run out and buy ramen and Alien food. But aside from these tasks, I would literally shut down. Thinking about the pile of work triggered panic attacks, so I did my best to avoid the subject entirely. Which only fed the beast.
The workload became a living breathing thing. It followed me everywhere. It sucked the fun out of my hobbies, like a happiness leech. It judged my lack of motivation. And whenever I confronted it, it would howl at me, like a deranged wolverine, until I ran to the couch in tears and consumed a full pint of ice cream.
I could fail, I told myself. It's not hard. I've done it before. I could fail and waste all of my parent's time and money. And that fear kept me on the couch until Alien came home. He would remind me that the work-beast was just a pinata wearing a scary mask. If I beat it into small enough pieces, I could burn them individually until the Mexican god of paper mache donkeys showered me with sweets. I may or may not have played with pinatas correctly as a child.
Finally, once I had segregated the workload into teeny bits, I was able to kick the beast once a day until it coughed out a B at the end of the semester. And then I would breathe a sigh of relief, fall asleep, wake up halfway through the next semester, and repeat the cycle.
But Fear and Caffeine... TOGETHER...
Scratch that, it has to be Caffeine, then Fear. Fear amplified by caffeine is something no living being should have to witness. But Caffeine, tempered by Fear, created a lazer of work-ethic, capable of churning out six pages of work a day. Altered levels of Caffeine and Fear were never able to adjust the ultimate number six. That is simply the amount of coherent English sentences I am capable of churning out in twenty-four hours.
And now, something strange has happened.
I have lost access to Fear.
Alien supports both of us on his income. I am blissfully unemployed, allowed to spend my time as I wish. I can crochet, game, sew, do housework, in whatever order I wish, for whatever duration I fancy. Caffeine is still more than capable of ensuring 80% work completed. But without the focus of Fear, I am left goalless.
So until I have a daunting project to avoid, or a T-Rex standing behind me, all beady eyes, granny glasses, and a short threatening ruler, nattering at me to write another blog post, I'm not certain how to ensure continued updates here.
Maybe I'll finally learn how to set goals.
Maybe I'll learn how to write without a muse, like a good author.
And maybe, sadly, this chapter of my book will close.
And maybe I'll go shopping for a T-Rex in granny glasses.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Craft, Creation, and Creativity
If roller coasters could make you feel soul crushing despair,
the fear of ultimate failure, drunkenness, and then reversed gravity,
then my last four weeks have felt like a roller coaster. I went from
being convinced I was failing my classes, to graduation, to moving to a
new town (22,000 people is a bit small for a "city" in my mind). The crunch time of finals week and the void that followed hasn't left much time for crocheting and blogging, but it has allowed me to see myself in several different roles.
First and foremost I have been a wife, in all of the glorious imperfection that such a title entails. I've baked cookies, washed laundry, cleaned dishes, packed, swept, and unpacked. Anything I can do to make Alien's life a little easier has been my number one priority.
Unfortunately my second identity, scholar, has suffered some for the primary role. When you've committed your life to someone (and you don't REALLY want to write those papers anyway) it's very easy to use that person as an excuse to not do other things. When faced with a seven page essay on the role of women in medieval literature or the potential of surprising my husband with homemade goodies... well, we eat a lot of baked goods in this house. Certainly more time is spent in the kitchen then banging out essays.
And then there's a third, almost intangible role that I find myself in. It hides in dusty corners, banished from the lead role of my personality by more pressing things like "responsibilities". But tucked into my daily tasks from my writing to cooking, is my role as an artist.
As many artists can relate, sometimes my creativity gets me in trouble. I sling slang and sarcasm into academic papers. I invent meal ideas that leave Alien with the "It's nice, but I would have really liked a hamburger" face. My creativity is naughty. And since it isn't necessary to pay bills and read textbooks, my artist has gotten pushed into a closet and told to think on her sins.
When I let that aspect of my personality stagnate for too long, I start to feel life become bland. Like your eating a bowl of ice cream that fades from chunky monkey to chocolate. To vanilla. To potato. Suddenly you find yourself looking back and say, "I'm pretty sure I'm living the same life, but I distinctly remember 100% more chocolate covered peanuts. Where did all of my chocolate covered peanuts go? Is that a potato skin in my ice cream?"
If I don't set aside the time to write, to crochet, to create, I find myself living in grey-scale. There is no music, only sound. No feelings, only pressure. Life without creation for me is the definition of going through the motions. Tasks are completed because they need done, not because I desire to complete them, or because I feel a sense of accomplishment once they are finished. But if I have a project to look forward to, whether it's working on my novel, sewing, or crocheting, the colors come back. I gain an immense sense of satisfaction when I can look back and point to the things that I have made will outlast me. They are artifacts of my time and talent, physical proof that my effort has not been wasted.
Going forward I've heard more than a few voices that say "get a job." Some want me to prove my skills to the world. Some think I should make money. Some *raises hand shyly* fear that I would wither away into the sofa, numbly staring into the eyes of the latest kittens to appear on Youtube if I didn't have a boss to tell me not to. And really, I think I should get a job. If nothing else, it will make the bills a little easier as we transition from college to "real life".
Regardless of what lies in the path ahead, I want to start making creation a priority in my life again. Maybe I'll get my chocolate covered peanuts back. Or at least get rid of these potato skins.
First and foremost I have been a wife, in all of the glorious imperfection that such a title entails. I've baked cookies, washed laundry, cleaned dishes, packed, swept, and unpacked. Anything I can do to make Alien's life a little easier has been my number one priority.
Unfortunately my second identity, scholar, has suffered some for the primary role. When you've committed your life to someone (and you don't REALLY want to write those papers anyway) it's very easy to use that person as an excuse to not do other things. When faced with a seven page essay on the role of women in medieval literature or the potential of surprising my husband with homemade goodies... well, we eat a lot of baked goods in this house. Certainly more time is spent in the kitchen then banging out essays.
And then there's a third, almost intangible role that I find myself in. It hides in dusty corners, banished from the lead role of my personality by more pressing things like "responsibilities". But tucked into my daily tasks from my writing to cooking, is my role as an artist.
As many artists can relate, sometimes my creativity gets me in trouble. I sling slang and sarcasm into academic papers. I invent meal ideas that leave Alien with the "It's nice, but I would have really liked a hamburger" face. My creativity is naughty. And since it isn't necessary to pay bills and read textbooks, my artist has gotten pushed into a closet and told to think on her sins.
When I let that aspect of my personality stagnate for too long, I start to feel life become bland. Like your eating a bowl of ice cream that fades from chunky monkey to chocolate. To vanilla. To potato. Suddenly you find yourself looking back and say, "I'm pretty sure I'm living the same life, but I distinctly remember 100% more chocolate covered peanuts. Where did all of my chocolate covered peanuts go? Is that a potato skin in my ice cream?"
If I don't set aside the time to write, to crochet, to create, I find myself living in grey-scale. There is no music, only sound. No feelings, only pressure. Life without creation for me is the definition of going through the motions. Tasks are completed because they need done, not because I desire to complete them, or because I feel a sense of accomplishment once they are finished. But if I have a project to look forward to, whether it's working on my novel, sewing, or crocheting, the colors come back. I gain an immense sense of satisfaction when I can look back and point to the things that I have made will outlast me. They are artifacts of my time and talent, physical proof that my effort has not been wasted.
Going forward I've heard more than a few voices that say "get a job." Some want me to prove my skills to the world. Some think I should make money. Some *raises hand shyly* fear that I would wither away into the sofa, numbly staring into the eyes of the latest kittens to appear on Youtube if I didn't have a boss to tell me not to. And really, I think I should get a job. If nothing else, it will make the bills a little easier as we transition from college to "real life".
Regardless of what lies in the path ahead, I want to start making creation a priority in my life again. Maybe I'll get my chocolate covered peanuts back. Or at least get rid of these potato skins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)