I am scratchy, itchy and out of sorts. My skin doesn’t fit. I am wrangling a 3 year old tantrum that keeps slipping out of my grasp and laughing at me. I am too young to be old and too old to be young. I am tired of everyone and craving even deeper intimacy. I love what I do and resist it every day. I am grumpy and lacking funds.
I’m sure there are many of you that are greeting the day in a different way. But I have a sense that I have a few partners in my itchiness. Everything feels just slightly off. Emotions are running high. There are whispers in every corner.
I have two dear friends who have just fallen deeply in love with new beautiful men. Thank God for that. It’s a kiss of springtime. I’m breathing them in.
I’m not complaining. I’m observing. I even have a sense of humor about it. How can one go from leading such a composed and orderly life to feeling slightly crazed and raw? Why doesn’t my glorious healing survival kit work? I have a kick ass skill set of ways to bring peace. Even if I could open it —the lock is sticky— everything in it feels inadequate.
I’ve never had a migraine but my emotional body feels like one.
Every as I write this, I’m laughing. And I’m crying. Inside. I always do both at the same time.
I’m wise but I don’t have all the answers. I can help you a whole lot but sometimes I can’t help myself. I can love you truly, madly and deeply solely because we’re alive together at this moment and it’s the only, only, only thing that will save us — but I often can’t truly, madly, deeply find that love for my own crinkly self. (Honestly, that’s mostly okay because if I turn my attention outward, I feel better anyway).
I’m a teacher, a counselor of sorts and an artist. It’s probably the most self-confrontational to be an artist and probably the scariest. But I think I’d rather be writing that in my occupation line right now — the kind of artist that disappears in her studio for days, eats only ritz crackers and emerges when the work is complete.
We emptied out our studio and I love it. I can see the sunlight on the floor. I stole my husband’s desk. He was nice about it. I like it better. Mine was an old school teacher’s desk and I no longer love the vibe. I’m selling it at an impromptu garage sale next week if you want it.
Pleasant will no longer do. Nor will polite. I think the stakes are too high.
I still am ferocious about not splattering my mess on others. I just want to tell you about it— to see if it rings any bells. I’m all about taking responsibility for the burning ground within. No one is to blame. It’s called growing pains.
I’m 50 years old and I’m growing up. I’m growing stronger. I’m growing more clear. I’m asking more of myself and others. It just looks messy right now. And as awkward as it feels, I’m going to let it be messy as long as it needs to be.
I’m going to send this to you now. All of you. And inside I feel a bit like I used to before I would go on stage when I was in my 20’s and thought I would forget all my lines. My palms are sweaty and my heart is beating fast.
Paradoxes are real.
I’m great at what I do. I have a lot of goodness to impart. I want to offer more. I want to grow as an artist and teacher. But right now it doesn’t feel or look all that poised and beautiful and put together.
This morning, I wandered around the kitchen in my ratty sweater getting lunches ready for the kids muttering lyrics from Beyonce’s Lemonade. “Cause I slay. I slay…” Yes, stop a moment and picture that. Perhaps it will give you a glimpse of the glorious awkwardness of growth.
Tons of love to all and especially to all those feeling itchy.