Vision Cocktail Party

Late yesterday afternoon I wrapped up a 2-day workshop with three dozen of my coworkers.  One of our last group activities was a Vision Party.  The basic idea is to have a vision of your future and share it with everyone you talk to at the party.  The other person gives you their ideas on how to bring you closer to your vision.  I’m not normally a person who enjoys just standing or sitting around and chatting; I’m an activity partner.  However, I thought it was really fun! 

I get bored with conversations pretty quickly, preferring to just keep someone company with a friendly presence or a few laughs while they do most of the talking.  Discussing our passions is a completely different realm.  When someone opens up and reveals something they truly desire, they beam with excitement and hope.  I’ve decided that I want every lengthy conversation I participate in to contain some of this.

From now on, when I say I want to meet for Happy Hour it’s going to be a Vision Happy Hour.  It doesn’t happen very often, so the timing should be perfect.  What I’m especially looking forward to is cheering from the sidelines while my friends accomplish the things that make them happy and having them do the same for me.

This is 40, well, almost 40. This is approaching 39.

                I’ve had this window open all day – a blank sheet of paper, the writer’s best friend and worst enemy.  Yes, I said “writer”.  It’s of no use to me to continue this game of mock indecision.  I’ve always known this is what I am.  Bookshelves of filled journals dating back to elementary school, lovely pens in every drawer of every room, an empty journal in every bag, backpack and suitcase, volumes of pages printed from files stored on my old Apple 2gs, files on a portable hard drive and taking up space on a couple of remote servers: it’s all proof of my denial.  So why haven’t I completed anything or even had any interest in writing for the past several years?   One tiny word that causes so much grief for everyone – ego.

I’m not sure why, as a society, we’re so addicted to ego.  We obsess about how we compare to those we consider to be the picture of beauty, talent, success, you name it.  Why can’t it just be wonderful to be ourselves?  Instead of embracing the variety of shapes, sizes, nationalities and colors we are born into, we pick one unattainable definition of perfection and measure ourselves against it.  In the end, even the person we believe bears the closest resemblance to perfect really is not.  Mr. or Miss Perfect compares him/herself to someone else too!  It’s like mental disease epidemic.  Here is where I insert my usual tagline, “and this is why I don’t have kids”.

Some people use that ego energy to propel themselves from humble beginnings to great success and superstardom.  They push themselves to get as close as they possibly can to what they believe is perfection.  Along the way many of them discover that what they are shooting for doesn’t exist.  Some people (and I fall into this category more often that the other) just give up.  What is the point of wanting something that can never be?  What’s the point of trying if you can n ever get what you want, especially if what you want doesn’t make you happy?  I may as well just accept the misery now and get it over with.  I got tired of getting my heart broken.  Amidst the melancholia, I observed something strange.  There was a glimmer of light, the surprising and blissful moments of complete clarity that somehow sustained my hope in some of the lowest depressions I experienced.  Even when those dreary days ran together into weeks, months, years, there was always that tiny spark keeping me going.  I don’t know how it survived, and that doesn’t really matter anyway.  I’m just thankful that it’s still there.

I’ve spent the majority of my life beating myself up for not feeling how “successful” people feel, as if there was any way I could have felt any differently or as if the self-inflicted guilt would change my feelings in a positive way.  Now, as 40 appears on the horizon, I finally don’t care.  I don’t care about pleasing or displeasing my mom.  I don’t care if my brother respects me.  I don’t care if my ex wants to be friends after we break up.  I don’t care if I never get anything else published.  I mean, yes, it would be nice but that isn’t why I write.  I write because it makes me feel sane.  I write because the chaos swirling around in my head runs through my fingertips and lines up nicely on the page.  Then, there’s quiet – peaceful, spacious quiet.  This is why I am a writer.

Life with a Dog

When I thought of getting a dog, which I’ve done frequently over the past year, I thought of a German Short-haired Pointer or a Doberman mix.  I wanted a dog that would run with me in the pre-dawn hours and provide protection on backpacking trips in the backcountry.  The fates aligned and bought me a rescue, Lucky.  Lucky is a Chihuahua mix (I think with Miniature Pinscher based on his long legs and pointy snout).  Had I seen Lucky on the adoption websites, I would have passed him up without a second glance.  That’s a rat, not a dog.  I still feel that way when we’re taking our evening walk.  I can’t exactly count on him to discourage an ill-intentioned aggressor.

Lucky was found running the street by one of my coworkers when she almost ran him over.  The shelter asked her to foster him until the owners showed up to claim him.  They never surfaced.  She and her family tried to keep him, but there was so much internal debate in their household about him that it proved to be more trouble than it was worth.  The kids were all allergic to him, and her husband was hesitant to let him stay from the beginning.  Six months after they adopted him, they were ready to surrender him.  I volunteered early in the period of unrest to take him in.  I’d already begun looking for adoption online again when she came to me and told me that they were ready to give Lucky away.

From the first day, my routine was forever changed.  I’ve traded my early morning coffee while watching the news for coffee while taking a freezing cold stroll outside.  I’ve traded my gym bag for dog treats, toys and miscellaneous supplies.  I’ve traded my nightlife for hiking and puppy play dates.  On weekday evenings I pack two lunches.

The thing I miss most is sleeping in.  As I write this my eyes are dry and burning from a combination of too much time reading the screen and needing more sleep.  The only quiet time I have to read, watch a movie or catch up on news and emails is in the evening while Lucky is fast asleep in his bed.  While I’m at work in the office he naps next to my desk, readying himself to prance and play when I take him out every few hours.  The need to simplify my life is more pressing than ever.  Basically I’m exhausted.