I expected to be on a meditation retreat today. I'm not, and I'm sitting here in my bathrobe. I haven't done anything of any real use for days. My largest interest is "When will the phone ring?" I've left messages and spoken to receptionists at doctor's offices. Won't anyone call me back in a timely manner? I suspect that the answer is "no". After all, it took four months to find out that one doctor would not take me on as a new patient. More on suspicions about why that was so will be forthcoming.
Yeah, I feel guilty for doing practically nothing. I've watched a lot of excellent documentaries, but they all run together in my mind, for I've fallen asleep during every single one of them.
Feeling unwell seems to destroy most of my control over neuroses I've thought I had gotten rid of. Guilt, for one. I seem to feel guilty about nearly everything. Not working. Not being able to concentrate on schoolwork. "Is that really true or are you just lazy?" asks my inner critic. Not making the bed. Oh wait, I didn't sleep in my bed. I slept on the sofa. Never mind that one.
Other shades of something like guilt: feeling like an lazy idiot. Didn't I mention that already? Yes, I have, calling myself lazy. And I am, at the moment. Two weeks ago, a stranger asked me if I ever slept, for I was being so productive. The inner critic sneers at me and tries to scare me with lines like "You'll never feel decent again!" and "You've wasted your life!" The inner critic taunts me, "People with life threatening illnesses have more energy than you do. What's wrong with you?!" Yes, some people with life threatening illness do indeed have more energy than I do. What can I say? People are different. The inner demon (I mean critic) says, "So you say people are different, do you?" and I cower a little. I mean, I'm talking to myself, and should be able to hold a decent conversation, but I'm intimidated by my inner bully, who reminds me that, "Yes, people are different, but you, well, you're a loser. Always were and always will be."
I had thought I'd conquered this miserable demon, but whenever I'm sick, he (yes, he) shows up and throws a party.
Comparing myself to others is a futile way to fight these messages. Comparisons are hopeless. They're traps. We use them when we don't have a solid inner gauge of what's right. I thought "Well, that's what you think!" Of course it is! I wrote it, didn't I?
Take the simple scenario of feeling sick and wanting to stay in bed, nap and read. Some people would say that's a good idea, some people would say "get to work" and others would say it depends on too many factors to give an opinion or "what's the big deal?!" I feel guilty so I'm trying to figure out what others might do or think. That's quite unusual for me. I usually don't care what others think. I know how I feel and where I stand, and that's that. End of story.
But when I get sick (and as I write this, beads of sweat are dripping down my face, so I really am ill), I lose all my grounding. I am suddenly an insecure 10 year old kid (with a slightly bigger vocabulary). Why I can write halfway coherently is beyond me, but I can (albeit more verbosely and tangentially than usual). I'm doing it because. . .I might need to.
What is this post about? Oh, look above. What's the deal with the stats? I totally forgot! Here's the "win statistics" for National Novel Writing Month: 2001: 14% 2002: 15.6% 2003: 13.7% 2004: 14.3% 2005: 16.6% 2006: 16.2% 2007: 15.1% 2008: 18.2% Yep, I'm one of the 18.2% I wonder how many of these "novels" will be edited. Will even one be published by a major publisher?
Okay, the ramble is over. Will I post it? Maybe I will, and take it down later. Ah, life. It's interesting.
Earlier this evening, our power was out. I sat at the kitchen table and ate my ramen noodles with tofu and egg by candlelight. When I was done, I thought, what shall I do? I only had these little tea lights and they aren't good for reading, no matter how many one uses. So, I used my chopsticks as drumsticks and sang a bunch of songs. I'm not very good at either of these things, but I was having fun.
I used to be self-conscious about my lousy singing. Nowadays, I seem to care little about the things I'm not all that good at. If I enjoy them, I do them. Maybe that's why the nanowrimo is coming fairly easily to me. I'm not judging it. If I wasn't having fun, I'd quit, and I'd say "oh well."
When I told a writing professor I know that I'd been writing 2-4000 words a day, he was impressed. I said, "I didn't say they were good words." And they probably aren't.
But here's the thing: even though I use words like "good" and "bad", it is not a judgment. At least it's not a judgment in the sense of feeling bad about it (there's that word again). I've gotten to this point lately where I feel pretty comfortable with mediocrity or even downright lousiness. When we're kids and we're learning to do new things, we not "good at" the things we do. It's acceptable (to some people). We're kids and we are learning. You don't go from not knowing how to read on day one and being able to read Tolstoy on day two. That is reserved for some very unusual geniuses.
Unfortunately, when I was a child, I was given the message that if one wasn't very good at something, you shouldn't do it. I've written about this before.
I was fortunate to have gone to an Elementary School where, when we were in the fourth grade, we were all asked if we wanted to learn an instrument. It was optional, but in my memory everyone did, though it seemed quite a number of kids picked the triangle. The school gave us an instrument, for free, and also provided free group lessons. Some kids did have lessons at home, which would have to be paid for, but the lessons at school were quite good.
I wanted to learn to play the bass, but I was steered away from that because I was so short, and so I picked the cello. I loved to play. Noone ever had to tell me "Julie, it's time to practice." If it was up to me, I would have played until bedtime and beyond, but my parents didn't want me to play at night.
I loved Bach and struggled hard to try to learn some of his Cello Suites. But I just loved to practice. If it was scales, fine. It didn't matter. The sound of a bowed instrument, a deep one, thrilled me. I was transported. I would completely merge with that cello and its sound. Years after I stopped playing, my childhood friend told me that one time my mother let her in our house and she saw me in my room, playing the cello, and that it scared her. She said I didn't look like a child while I was playing. I was lost in what I was doing and my face was so serious that she left my house without saying a word.
If you were reading carefully, you'd have noticed I said that I stopped playing. There were a few reasons and they aren't happy ones. For one thing, my parents didn't seem to like that I played. I never once heard a thing about my playing from them (except to quit playing at night). Neither of them ever said, "You've improved" or "that sounded good" or anything.
In the orchestra, one was seated according to how good you were. There was 1st, 2nd and 3d cello and all the rest. Well, only three kids played the cello, so I was 3rd. I didn't care. Celloist #1 was a child prodigy who spent half her day out of school studying with someone we heard was famous. She didn't look very happy. And besides, her sister was Violinist #1 and was already playing concerts, so everyone rather thought she was in a tough spot. The second celloist was a gifted young boy, and besides, he was a friend of mine, who seemed to enjoying playing with me at home, even if I wasn't as good as he was. So, I was quite content.
Now, I have to admit I have no memory of my parents saying any particular words, but I knew they thought I was wasting my time. If I couldn't be the best, I shouldn't be doing it. Besides, I had a talent for drawing and I ought to have been doing that. This was the one thing that they were proud of, but they could understand it, because they were both visual artists. Maybe I'd grow up to be more successful then they had been. That's the message I got.
But drawing never gave me the pleasure that playing music did. I loved to draw, but it didn't transport me beyond myself. Sometimes I felt like a peforming monkey because I was talented, and I hated it. When I played music, there were no thoughts of good or bad or talented or not. I was just playing music.
Unfortunately, when grade school was done, the free instruments and lessons ended. That's when the anvil dropped. I was told that I had to choose between renting an instrument and taking lessons. Now, that's not a choice. You can't take lessons if you don't have an instrument, and you can't teach yourself the cello without an instructor (not unless you're a genius, which I plainly was not). So, that was that.
I was given a cheap guitar at the end of the year to make up for things, but classical guitar just didn't cut it for me. It sounded plunky and even when I listened to a master play, it still sounded plunky. So, I wound up being a punk rock guitarist who thought she sucked. Well, that's making a long story short there (which is unusual for me, I know), but you get the idea.
So, these days I'm reveling in doing things badly and enjoying them. There are others who say I shouldn't say I do these things "badly" because I'm putting myself down. I don't agree. I'm being honest. I'm not a novelist and I'm not some genius in the rough. I thought I'd give writing a novel a try and it's good fun. Will I ever get published and get on the best seller list?
I doubt it highly.
I know people have trouble reading my long blog posts. But I'm having a good time and that's what counts. I'm learning a lot, expressing myself freely and even, at times, reveling in doing something I'm not all that good at. So, please, let me say I'm bad at stuff. It feels really good. It feels freeing. There are no expectations when you aren't good.
But I wouldn't mind a little pat on the back once in a while. I wished I had gotten it from my parents when I played the cello. I wouldn't have minded one bit if I grew up to be the very last celloist in some small city somewhere. But no, if I couldn't make it to Carnegie Hall, it was no go. Well, that's a sure fire way to create an underachiever, if you ask me.
Image note: Apocalyptica. Four cellists cover Metallica songs. Once, I was listening to this in my tat shop, when a guy I knew came in. He said, "Turn that classical crap off!" Then he stopped dead, "Is that Enter Sandman?!", he said. The first time I heard it, I couldn't stop laughing. That sounds like a bad review, but it was the cognitive dissonance that got me. Check it out for yourself:
I found the album cover on a sweet little web site made by a young kid (I think). Take a look.
Addendum: Just in case you think I'm a whiner who's still all upset about what my parents did to me (oh, the pain!) I'm not. One remedy for childhood hurts like this is to do them over and be your own parent. Some years ago, I rented a cello and took a lesson. It was fantastic. At the end of the first lesson, I played the first four measures of one of the Bach Suites. And here comes that word: I played it badly. Of course I did! I didn't care a whit. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, my hands were pretty shot from tattooing and I had to leave it at that one lesson. But that was enough. I had parented myself, gave myself permission to try it once again before I dropped dead, and any resentments I still harbored were gone. Well, maybe there's a wee bit. . .
I do feel the need to say this: If you are a parent, if your child is lousy at something and loves it, be happy for them and encourage them with everything you've got.
Jeffrey Goldberg of the Atlantic Monthly asks people to find someone named Jeffrey Goldberg on the Web who isn't either a.)him b.)a lawyer or c.)a doctor.
Out of curiosity, I tried, by putting the State of Maine in the search parameters. I figured there must be some Jeffrey Goldberg who was an underachiever somewhere in this State. But if there is, he's not advertising himself on line.
This brings me to a subject I was thinking about last night. I was watching (yes, another violent) movie last night, "American Gangster". It was a surprisingly slow, but fascinating movie about Frank Lucas, the biggest heroin dealer in Harlem during the late 60's and 70's and the cop who brought him down.
While watching this film, I found myself feeling quite sad. As I've mentioned, I watch a lot of disturbing movies, but I soon realized that it wasn't the movie, per se, that was bothering me. It was the soundtrack and the recreation of New York past. I was not watching this film as a person who is living in 2008, but a person who was alive in 1968, and that person was one very unhappy child.
Music can have that effect upon a person. It brings us back to times past much in the same way as smell - no thoughts, just raw bodily feelings that we may not even be aware of (no wonder couples pick such awful songs for their weddings).
I've been skimming the book, "The Mindful Way Through Depression" in the last two days, and now understand a bit more about why I can slip into a depression so easily. And yes, this does relate to watching the film.
When I hear the music of my early childhood, a part of me is still there, fixed in time. It doesn't matter how much I talk about it and think I've "resolved those issues". In some way, they are unresolvable. They can only be managed. It's like having post traumatic stress disorder (which, to tell you the truth, I've been diagnosed with, though I don't quite buy it).
One can't undo the past. One can only learn to live with it better.
In last night's thoughts, I had a silent wish for all parents: tell your kids that they can be anything they want. Tell your kids that they are beautiful. Tell them they are smart. Tell them they are special.
I was thinking on Obama and his smile. During the debate on Friday, in the midst of such seriousness, he would occasionally smile. His smile is dazzling and open. His eyes gleam merrily. Dick and I went to a small Chinese restaurant on Saturday night, where our waiter was a young man from China who was obviously just starting to master English. I asked him to read us the words on the back of the fortune cookie slips. This seemed to make this kid so happy! Someone wanted his expertise, and he laughed as I pathetically tried to pronounce the Chinese word for "today". I enjoyed his open laugh and smile, and then I thought about Obama.
How in the world did this man develop into someone so open and so full of optimism? He was born to a white single mother. His father left him. Just those three facts alone would, I'd imagine, statistically set him up for failure. But no, he grew up to be who we see now, a smart, self-assured and positive person.
We now know that genetics do play a role in these things, but nurture is still winning over nature in this debate. One thing we know about Obama is that his mother and grandparents gave him absolutely unconditional love and a deep, abiding respect for others. They also told him that he could be anything, with no reservations. They also gave him a deep trust in the power of education. And so, here he is today. Like him or not, one has to see that ones' upbringing can make all the difference in the world.
Obama could have been a deeply alienated and angry young man.
When I hear the music of the sixties, I am filled with a sense of creeping dread. That's because I have so few happy memories from that time. What kind of messages was I brought up with? They certainly weren't the ones that Obama's family gave him!
I learned these: There will probably be a nuclear disaster of major propertions in my lifetime. People are mean and stupid. There may be another Holocaust for the Jews. It's doubtful that you'll succeed in anything. The cards are stacked against you. Love is an illusion. Life is essentially meaningless. . .
I could go on, ad nauseum. It's a wonder I made it to the age of 16 with these ideas burned into my brain. I've spent my lifetime fighting the weight of all these negative messages. It takes up a lot of my energy and that energy could have been used for so many better things.
What has this to do with Jeffrey Goldberg? Give a bit of thought.
