I’m working through The Artist’s Way with a group of friends, and we are discussing the chapter that begs the question “Why don’t you treat yourself to some creative luxuries?” I had to ask myself why I haven’t ever even purchased a nice writing pen. I am a writer! I haven’t purchased a writing software. I’ve only taken one writing class. And forget other creative materials. I have none. Well, I did buy some wooden wick candle-making supplies last year but only because I got tired of paying for candles. It was hardly a creative splurge.
This morning I was writing my Morning Pages, and my cheap ass pen ran out of ink again. I like these gel pens, but I buy the disposable ones that run out of ink after about three days of writing. I hate the waste and the plastic that ends up in the landfill. I’ve always thought buying a nice pen would be wildly expensive, and I’d probably lose it anyway. But after the discussion this week about my not investing in my creativity, I got to thinking that I should buy a nice pen.
I was a bit shocked when I saw a $950 pen. Whoa! Now that would be an extravagance.
It was beautiful but since I don’t even know what kind of pen I like, I thought I might start a little smaller. Cross has a 55% discount on their already sale-priced outlet pens so I decided on a 2019 Year of the Pig Townsend Rollerball pen. My birthday is in the Year of the Ox as is 2021. So it’s not on sale right now. If I really like this pen maybe I’ll splurge at some point and get the Ox model. And, hey, I got a $300 pen for $100. Yes, it’s a luxury when I could buy 24 for $7.99 at Staples, but it hardly will break the bank.
So, now when I write my Morning Pages, I’ll have a nice pen that feels good in my hand. Maybe I’ll want to write more. If I start writing more, I’ll need to be more comfortable. That could lead me to setting up a real desk somewhere in my home. If I set up a desk, I’ll need a writing software such as Scrivener to organize my thoughts. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll take some writing courses. Right now, I think I’ll be happy with myself for splurging on a nice pen. It could literally lead me anywhere, one word at a time.
I have three Christmas trees. One is a beautiful Balsam Fir I purchased from Balsam Hill. It was a treat I gave myself since I’ve enjoyed my tree so much the last couple of years. It’s perfect although Michael says I’m not fluffing it enough. (But he’s a bit compulsive about fluffing and maybe a few other things.) The other two trees are reflections of the first. And while they may not actually be additional trees, they give off as much light as an evergreen threesome. Reflections of light multiply luminosity. I don’t even need a lamp in my living room.
Oddly enough with all of this luminescence in my living room, the light doesn’t illuminate my face in Zoom calls. I had the idea the other night that I’d turn off the lamp because it was so bright in here, and I love the candlelight effect on my aging skin. But I looked like I was sitting in the dark. I was perplexed.
I researched reflection and refraction of light to see why this phenomena is occurring but I couldn’t really figure it out. And then I got bored because I’m actually more interested in Christmas trees than the science of reflection. I decorated my very first Christmas tree as an adult when I lived in Monroeville, Pennsylvania. I was married. It was our first Christmas, and I went to K-Mart or some such big box store and bought a small plastic-like Christmas tree and some ornaments with a Little Drummer Boy theme. In comparison to my beautiful tree today it wasn’t much, but it was my first.
The next decade was a Southern Living Christmas decorating extravaganza featuring live greenery spray-painted silver and gold, fresh-cut trees and gaudy Christmas sweaters. Christmas became an event to plan for, decorate, share with others in lavish parties and then laboriously unravel after New Year’s. After we divorced, I continued to get live trees when I wasn’t traveling for the holidays. My second husband hated Christmas, so putting up trees during that marriage felt like yet another unbearable struggle, and I lost interest. It just wasn’t worth the effort.
Michael helped me with my first tree after my second divorce. I bought a live one at a little Midtown tree lot, and we dragged it up my stairs to my small apartment in Memphis. I call it The Crying Tree because I spent that Christmas bathing in its light while grieving the loss of my marriages and fearing I would never be happy. Ironically, it is the tree that I remember the most. I spent so much time with it. The ornaments were gathered over decades of my life and each represented a memory of a person, a place or a significant event. While many of them reminded me of loss, their prominence on that tree helped me grieve and let go of the past.
I wouldn’t have another tree until a couple of years ago. Those ornaments from The Crying Tree are gathering dust in a box that I can’t bring myself to open. Photos of my long-ago stepchildren who I no longer see, pets that are deceased and gifts from people no longer in my life remind me of what I’ve lost and not what I’ve gained. I’ll go through them one day…. or not. But loss is not what I want to see reflected in my window. I want sparkly beauty that multiplies into explosions of light. I want the gentle caress of candlelight that illuminates the present and has the potential to light up my future. I chose classic glass ornaments for their lovely reflective properties. I love my Memphis tree for what it gave me, and I love all of my trees for what they represented. But, for this moment, I love my three Michigan Christmas trees the best. And, even though they don’t illuminate my face, they light up my heart.
One of the best things about writing a blog is that I can return to posts to see what I was thinking or struggling with a year ago or five years ago. I started writing Midlife Moments in 2012, and it was interesting to go back tonight and see what I was doing each New Year’s Eve during those 8 years. In some Decembers I was obviously struggling with depression. In 2012, my life and goals were all about running. One year I was on a backpacking trip on the Wild Azalea Trail in Louisiana but still managed to post a blog. And last year all I wanted to do was to commit to 30 days of yoga to see what would come up for me. Well…..
On the winter solstice, I attended a Soul Care group with my coach and a group of women whom I have never met in person but who are becoming a solid piece of my support network. Barb led us in a meditation where we reviewed 2020 month-by-month and reflected on what had happened to us during that time.
It’s odd to even think of January and February of this year with its normalcy of work and hugs and breathing all over each other without a care in the world. What we were thinking? Early March came around, and all hell broke loose at work with a big test to see if we could run that contact center from home. Within 24 hours of a successful test we packed up our belongings and went home for three weeks which turned into three months and then forever for a whole bunch of us.
On a positive note, I have spent a lot of time outdoors this year. I’m sure it’s been good for my spirit. I know this year has been good for Ashok. I got a new kitten after losing my sweet Buster Kitty. Luna has brought a lot of life to my home to the dismay of my other pets. But I’ve certainly enjoyed his playfulness and energy. I have been given the gift of precious time to sort out my next step career-wise. I am supported financially and have the security to explore my options. I have also stayed healthy, both mentally and physically. I do not want Covid-19. No thank you. I don’t need it. I don’t wan’t it. Stay away from me, you dastardly disease.
I’ve learned a lot about myself. With the unrelenting solitude of my current situation due to covid and being unemployed, I have a lot of time to reflect. I’m in a bubble surrounded by all of my pretty baubles and shiny things, and I have time to look at each one to decide if I really want to keep it. I also have time to feel the loss of things that are missing and to discover new pleasures. I have been given the gift of choosing what works for me and what doesn’t. And I’m learning some surprising things.
This week I discovered that I’ve largely structured my life with a lot of self-imposed “shoulds” that don’t really make me happy. For instance, I’ve beat myself up for years because I’m not reading as much as I “should”. I make goals and resolutions to read more. I joined a book club so that I would be encouraged to read more. I have two e-readers full of books that I have half-read. I used to read all the time. It was my default hobby. If I wasn’t doing something else I was reading. I loved it. In my mind, I believed I “should” get back to that because obviously it was good for me. Yoga was the same way. It literally changed my life at one time. But I’m resisting doing it now. Yes, I read on occasion. And, yes, I do yoga on occasion. But I have a relentless expectation that these activities need to be a part of my daily schedule.
I’m taking a class online, and the teacher talked about our relentless expectations. She said we set ourselves up for disappointment. We have an expectation of ourselves, and we don’t meet it. In our mind we failed. The expectation becomes even more urgent. Before long, we are pounding ourselves about this particular expectation so much that we destroy any chance of acceptance of ourselves. I immediately recognized my expectation about reading as one of these relentless expectations. Why am I beating myself up over this? I obviously enjoy podcasts more now. I enjoy hiking. My free time is spent baking and talking on the phone to friends and even writing. But instead of enjoying the hobbies I love, I’m relentlessly expecting myself to read and disappointing myself every day.
Hmmmm…. What other relentless expectations do I have that I want to release? All of a sudden I feel like I can reinvent my life. I would prefer to meditate every day instead of having a daily yoga practice so I can let that go. Just because it was life-changing 15 years ago doesn’t mean it is today. And meditation may be the thing I let go of next year. I don’t actually want to do strength-training 3 days a week and run on the days in between. I don’t even like running anymore. I’d like to be more fluid about my workouts and do what I feel like doing that day. To hell with a schedule. And with all of this free time I’m opening up, I want to get involved with a community theater and maybe do some acting! Who knows what I really like to do for fun?
I am not in a place to know what I want to do in 2021. I don’t have a focus. I don’t even have a job. But I know what I don’t want to do. I don’t want to follow a script that was not written by me. There is a saying that expectations are premeditated resentments. I have been setting myself up to resent myself. And I’m tired of resenting myself for not following through on these relentless expectations. I want 2021 to be a kindler, gentler year for me. I want to give myself time to explore my interests and pursue some of them, even if they seem indulgent or silly. I have time. In fact, I have until the end of my time on this earth to figure me out. The only expectation I want to have is to love myself and all that I bring to this party.
2021, I have no resolutions this year. I have no expectations. And I’ll bet by the end of the year, I won’t be disappointed. And, with any luck, I’ll love how I spend my time by December 2021.
After posting my blog yesterday, a couple of my readers commented about my judging my messy process in a negative light. As I read their comments, I had a defensive reaction because I actually didn’t think of it that way at all. They do have a point. Messiness in general is considered dirty or not in good order. So, I dug a little deeper into my feelings over this word. And, to be frank, I’ve had reactions to this word most of my life. (So thanks to my readers for pushing me on this!)
This summer a friend of mine was talking about a friend’s two daughters. One was “very successful” and the other one was “a bit of a mess”. She was standing outside her tent, and I remember reacting really strongly about why someone being “a bit of a mess” was not successful. In fact, I might argue that the one that is a “bit of a mess” is authentic and real without judging themselves harshly or trying to shoehorn themselves into some definition of success that might not work for them. I didn’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure it bothered me for hours. I’m not sure who I was trying to convince, but I did not think being a “bit of a mess” was a bad thing.
I’ve never been tidy. I clean up my house and my car but it’s never on a regular timetable and often happens right before someone else is coming for a visit or going for a ride. There’s a part of me that knows I will be judged by others, but the motivation to keep a neat house does not emanate from inside me. It’s something on that list of things I should do. I hate that list.
I felt so relieved in my late 30s when I discovered that my personality type has a “messy” process in work. There was no judgment in the words. In fact, what I read made it seem perfectly normal to have a messy process. The profile also gave me tips to manage through the messiness and help others understand how I work. I became very open with my team that my process was messy and owning it. When I became a manager, I had to be very clear that I was still exploring options or I’d end up with a group of people working toward a goal that I hadn’t quite set yet.
Creativity is messy. Where I end up is never really where I thought I’d be, and it often takes several iterations before I am satisfied. The outcome is often better than my initial vision, so the journey is worth it. Life is very much like that. I know where I wanted to end up, but life had a way of changing the course. I still ended up happy with my situation, but it doesn’t look at all like I thought it would. For me, the meandering in the messiness is part of the gift. I like things that interest me, and a linear path is a bit boring and predictable
I have often felt judged about being messy. Women apologize all the time about their house being a mess. I look around and see a house that’s very organized and usually things are pretty much in their place. It makes me wonder where the bar is for being messy. I see their almost immaculate house that is a “mess” in their opinion, and I am embarrassed about every time they have ever seen mine. A friend of mine the other day apologized profusely because her car was a “mess”. It looked about like mine, and I assured her I was a “messy car” person. It is what it is. To me, it just says they have better things to do in their car besides clean it up. And I feel right at home. But it does send me a message that I have something to apologize about.
So, I don’t think I’m judging myself for the messiness in my process, as I know it works for me. Being messy is a rebellious act. Yes, I could probably put in the effort to look perfect and keep moving steadfastly toward my goals. But I don’t think I would end up where I need to be. I might end up where it looks like I should be, but how would I ever know if that’s where I really want to be. Most of the lessons I’ve learned in my life have been learned on detours and missteps. Besides, it’s much more fun to meander a little, reach some dead ends and discover a few surprises.