I should blog more.
Because it is good for the soul. Because it helps me formulate thoughts and expressions (more) coherently. Because there is something to be said for throwing my vulnerable interior out into the world and seeing what returns (and what doesn’t).
Because I fear I have little worth saying these days. Because I haven’t found myself worked up or excited about something enough to put words on page regarding it. Because I am afraid of sharing what I do get worked up and excited about. Because what if no one fekkin cares? Or what if they do care?
Please excuse my vomi mot. (That is French for word vomit.)
Do you ever go through this – Seasons that feel like, if you were on a boat, you would be seasick with the roll of emotion. One minute up, higher than high, hoping and wishing and dreaming beyond your wildest, and, then, a sudden torrential downpour of faith-questioning, soul-searching, what-the-heck-do-I-do-with-this-anyway confusion?
It sounds a bit melodramatic. I realize this. But this seasick emotional state is what I have been pondering the last few days. I find myself enjoying the ecstasy of walking on air, giggling and joyous, quickly followed by a self-ridiculing doubt that my happiness is not real and will be short lived for it rests on a shoddy foundation of make believe.
The internal deflation goes something like this:
Me: Here, World, is all my joy!
World: Thanks, but that isn’t the way things work.
Me: But couldn’t it? I mean, it seems so simple to me…
World: Again, not really how things roll around here. Here being the Universe and all.
And the Universe has quickly played a trump card I can’t argue with. I attempt to rewrite the story, fill the page with a new masterpiece, but to no avail, always reminded that the fantasy land I prefer to live in is, indeed, not the reality I must actually learn to function inside.
Here is where I should put some concrete examples… (but dare I?)
We shall start with a relatively safe example that I haven’t expressed fully to many folks on this great planet….
It has been ridiculously hard to live in Oregon over the last six months.
Holy Shit. I have been here six months already. And, that is part of the hardship. At six months I expected some burgeoning friendships. Some solid business leads. A deep community of faith. Some activities and exposure to the wonder that is supposed to be this beautiful Northwest land of creativity, food and beautiful experience.
The hope I carried into the greater Portland area was a hope that this move would be a breaking point – the good kind. The kind that comes after so much effort, the overflowing of hard work and discipline that refreshes the soul. I expected to find like minded people that sought to intentionally change the world and themselves and to feel less alone in my life’s pursuit. Not even just less alone, but encouraged and challenged to grow towards the life I dared to lead – together, with others. I expected open arms and a warm smile that led to a great conversation over beer and may or may not involve kayaks or wooded running trails. And to return this wonderful feeling of growth and promise with my own contribution of experiences, thoughts, and service.
Is that too much to ask?
I am disappointed.
The initial catalyst for the move pretty much fell through within the first few weeks of being here. While the decision did not rest solely on one possibility, and I quickly reworked and refocused to find new potential, the launch was rough and continues to be rough. Each step forward seems to result in a series of misfortunes. A new partnership falls through because of illness. A deadline is breached because of emergency surgery (make that three separate medical emergencies…). A valued individual is called off another direction. A house burns down. A promise isn’t kept. A response isn’t received. A schedule is overfilled. The coffee runs out and the cat is sick. (Literally, all these things have been happening)
So, now, my life of world-changing discipline and community boils down to a lonely scramble of epic proportions, which is just exhausting.
Here is a sad picture: I have now left church three times. After having driven the 25+ minutes to be there, grabbed my coffee and sat down inside, I have just gotten up and walked right back out three times because I was too absolutely, soul-achingly lonely to be there. Let the pity roll in. It is pitiful!
Then the sun comes out.
I head out for a run and the day is so gloriously beautiful that cares and worries and the weight of the world melt off my shoulders and I don’t dare quicken my pace for fear of running through the moment too quickly and finding that the cares and worries and weight were really just waiting for me at the start.
There are these bits. Moments of absolute bliss evoked by beauty or food so good I can’t get enough of it or a moment in time where I dare to believe something fantastical to be real, and my sea rolls again.
Is this just life? My hopes and dreams thrown around the bow of a ship sometimes gently at sea, sometimes in a mighty squall, and somehow never seeming to move in any apparent or appropriate direction?
Am I lost at sea?