Dot's Arrival: the end of an era

I paced the apartment, wandering from the kitchen to the living room to peer out the window. Still no sign of arrival. I wrung my hands over each other. I sat down on the couch, pulling Ace toward me. I kissed his head, smelled deeply of his fur. He hadn't had a bath for at least a month. I added a line to my mental checklist: wash Ace. I wondered how much things would change in the next day, week, month...hell, the next hour.

My phone rang and my stomach jumped. Alex had arrived. I gated Ace into the bedroom and ran down the stairs. As I opened the door to the street, my redheaded friend from college brought my father and stepmother's red-furred dog around the side of the car. Little Dot, disoriented and scared, looked up at me and barked. Then she wagged her little Australian cattle dog stub of a tail with a look of recognition breaking across her face and bounded toward me. I took her leash and fought back tears. She was here; Dot had made it home.

A week and a half earlier, my sister Ash had texted me in the middle of the morning. Look at facebook. I checked my feed to find that Maggie was asking if anyone knew of someone in a place that they could take Dot. With only half a thought and a thirty-two second phone call to Jason, I offered to take her. Maggie explained that the loss of my father had not only broken Maggie down, but it had also brought something out in Dot. She had become unmanageable, acting out and trying to isolate Maggie from everyone around her through aggressive behavior. Maggie and I had surmised that Dot was in as much pain as we were and that perhaps we could offer both Maggie and Dot a little respite so that they (and we) could grieve. Ashleigh was relieved to hear the news; Maggie was relieved and scared and sad; I was scared and relieved and just wished Dad were there to know what to do. But, we Fleenor women did our best to stick together and take care of our little Fleenor girl.

The next ten days were filled with hard conversations where I told Maggie it was okay and Maggie told me it was okay and Ashleigh and Jason told us both it was okay. This may have been the hardest decision Maggie has ever had to make and her belief that Dot would be safe with me is one of the most humbling things I have ever experienced. We were all a bit shaky.

After several failed attempts to figure out a carrier service, my friend Alex offered to give Dot a ride to Denver since she was moving out this way from LA. Then, suddenly after all my planning and waiting and worrying, Dot arrived on my doorstep. I called Maggie to let her know Dot had made it and together we cried.

Since that time, Dot has become a part of the family. She sleeps next to us at night and walks with us in the morning. She whines when we are slow to get out of bed and grunts with little pig noises when she is happy. She is beautiful and smart and every day I get to see the years of training my father invested in her. She is part of me now.

I know I haven't written about my father's death yet. To be honest, I've only really begun to understand what his death means to me and I'm not sure I have the words for most of that yet, but I do know one thing: when Dot came to live in Colorado, it changed me. Her presence has allowed me to grieve in a way that I couldn't have imagined I would need.

With Dot's arrival and my father's death, it's time for some things to cease and new things to start. This will be my last entry on Chow Tails. In the coming months, I may be blogging and I may not. If you're interested in where those posts *might* appear, you can find me at: http://quitesimplyreflections.wordpress.com/

As you can imagine, this blog may be a lot darker than Chow Tails. I trust if you read it, you are prepared for that.

Thank you for reading about me and Ace for the last three years. You've been with us to Boston and back; you were here when my grandfather died; you've been around for the arrival of Jason on the scene; and with this final post, you have met Dot. I wish you all the best in the world and I hope to see you all in the flesh soon.

Happy Holidays!

Friends: it's been a rough year. And a great year. Today, my mind and heart are a little too full for a blog post. I will try to write a reflection before we meet 2013. Until then,

Happy Holidays!

One year and two days

I remember this day last year. It's not a special day, really. Just December fourth. I'm not sure if anything of historic significance ever happened on this day and I'm not aware of any birthdays on this day (I realize people have been born on this day, but no one that I know is coming to mind at the moment). I didn't do anything significant on this day last year. It was just an average grad school Sunday spent studying and writing.

Then something wonderful happened. The person I'd been on a date with two days earlier texted me. He wrote just to say he was near my house (even though I think I was somewhere else) and that he'd thought of me. The conversation evolved and we made plans to go on another date the next day.
After our conversation ended, I remember wishing we were still talking, just the way today when I talked to Jason on my break at work I wished the conversation wouldn't end. I liked talking to this guy. He was funny and suave and surprisingly dorky for how cool he seemed. Something inside me leapt with joy and I wished with everything I had that I wouldn't mess this up.

I'm not much for the beginning of relationships. I don't like the process of slowly revealing oneself. I'm the same way in friendships and even on this blog. I'm not interesting because I'm a mystery. I'm a pretty open book. I knew I liked him (a lot) and that I wanted to skip over the beginning, the how-much-is-too-much-to-share worrying, the concerns about spending too much time together. That much was apparent to me even then.

However, if you'd told me then that we'd have a little apartment in our own little corner of Denver by this point, I'd have said you were crazy. But, somewhere between the butterflies in my stomach of a new relationship and the giant, miserable fight we had last night, I found what I didn't know I was looking for. I found Jason. It's not always fun. It's certainly not always perfect, but our relationship causes me to grow and develop as a person everyday. Sometimes, that's annoying, but most of the time, it's enjoyable. And, it's always a gift.

If I try to figure out exactly when I loved Jason or when we became something solid, a place for me to stand, I don't think I could pinpoint it. So much has happened in the last year and we both have grown and changed so much. It's been amazing. And, kind of awful at points. We've "talked" for so long we both just want to walk away. We've hurt each other by accident and sometimes we've even been mean to one another. Personally, I get it. Jason and I were both single people, on our own path, not really needing anyone else. And, now we do. Despite ourselves, we need each other. Not because we can't live without one another, but because we make each other better.

Let me see if I can explain. You see, there are these times when the bully in me beats up on the little girl in me. When I feel like I'll never be good enough or do enough or get my act together enough. When I feel like my writing is awful and my relationships are a sham. When I feel like I'm just that bad little girl who forgot the simplest task. Trapped in the dark cellar of my own creation, broken down and sad, I can hear a small tap at the door. Sometimes it stays quiet, sometimes it grows louder. It never desists. When I open the door, light floods into the dank room and I'm freed from my own darkness. It takes both of us. As much as Jason has to knock, I have to answer.
Could I do it all alone? Maybe. Would I? I'm not sure. Today, though, 367 days later, I'm just grateful I don't have to.

Survival

This month I wrote 50,083 words for my new novel, In God's Country. That's not counting the reports for work or blog entries or anything else I've worked on. That's just material for my novel. I'm not going to pretend like it isn't a big deal or like it didn't make an already hard month even more stressful. Because it did. I woke up early most mornings and wrote before I went to work and then wrote through my lunch break, barely stepping away from my computer to heat up a tortilla to munch on while clacking away at the keyboard. You might be asking yourself why I did this in the midst of one of the most difficult times in my life. I'd just started a new job. My father just became seriously ill. I'm trying to get my body to a healthy weight through diet and exercise. I had already completed 50,000 words in June. I had every excuse not to try to complete the NanoWrimo challenge this year.

That's exactly why I did it. I had every reason to need more time, to not want to work hard, to need a break, to need more sleep, to feel depressed. I have every reason to say I was going to put my efforts toward getting my first novel, Lilith's Repose, picked up before starting a new manuscript. I had every reason to save NanoWrimo for another year. When I sat down on November fifth with zero words to count toward my ultimate goal, I was tempted to quit. Five days may not seem like much, but by NanoWrimo's standards, I was already over 8,000 words behind. Eight thousand. Despite knowing I would spend the month fighting an uphill battle and knowing that I was always going to be behind, I decided I was going to at least try to hit the 50,000 word mark.

November fifth did not go so well. I wrote 500 words. The words I wrote didn't make much sense and the story wasn't there. Last time I wrote for a NanoWrimo month, I had already completed 30,000 words, which meant I knew where my story was going and I just had to finish it. This month, I had nothing. I had no words, and only a sparse and unclear outline. My main character didn't have a name or much character to speak of and all I had was a list of who died and when. No whys, no reason, no rhyme.

I didn't write again for two days. And, then I wrote 1200 words. Not enough for the day, let alone to catch me up, but it was something. Over the next few weeks, I gained momentum and by the time I left for Fresno to see my family and move my father from Nevada to California (seeing him for the first time in 3 years), I was only 5,000 or so words behind. Pretty good for having started out 8000 behind, right?

Then, I arrived. And, all my best laid plans for waking early and writing before my days started went the way of mice and men. I wrote one hundred words one morning before I broke down in sobs thinking of my own life. I gave up for the duration of the trip and didn't write again until I was on the plane back home. Before I knew it, the last Monday of the month had arrived. I have five days and 25,000 words to write. I sat down and asked myself it was really possible. The answer was plainly, "I do not know." So, I tried. I wrote as much as I could everyday, pushing myself beyond what I thought was possible. By Thursday at noon, I had completed my goal. Somehow.

I sat back on my futon at home and felt...odd. I had done it. I had climbed the insurmountable mountain and I was okay. Wasn't I?

I thought for a while, wondering if I'd done what I set out to. Then I wondered what I'd set out to do. I had wanted to write 50,000 words. The proof was in the pudding, I had a messy, beautiful, full document full of words. But, why had I done it? Just then, I thought of a professor from Harvard, Ron Thiemann. For one of his classes, I had discussed the act of writing as an act of survival, but even more as an act of getting beyond survival. When I presented my short paper to the class, he pressed me. I remember his question vividly: "What does it mean not just to survive, but to thrive?"

I looked at my paper and came up with the best thing I could think of. I don't know exactly what I said in response, but I can remember the feeling. An act of survival is something born of the deep impulse toward life, toward anything but death. An act of thriving, of living, is coming to terms with how one has survived and being willing to get beyond the act of merely surviving. In a sense, it means to get beyond the daily grind, to create.

Yesterday, not three hours after I finished the first half of my second novel, the man who believed in me died. Professor Ron Thiemann encouraged me to write, and when he read my writing, he told me that for me writing was not a choice, not a desire, but a calling, a vocation. Writing was in me, and like any gift, it was meant to be shared. Without him, I would not have made it to this point.
Today, while I sit at the end of a month that really gave me it's worst, I think perhaps I have survived. And, perhaps I have done more. While the storm threw me to and fro, seeking desperately to throw me out of my little boat, I hunkered down, not merely for survival, but to dream dreams. With my chin on my knees and a hood over my head, I weathered the storm. Soaked to the bone and tired, I pushed myself to create stories, to believe in what was inside me. I think Professor Thiemann would be proud of me. At this time when I feel perhaps most downtrodden, most heartbroken, I also feel renewed. Professor Thiemann saw what was inside me, he saw who I am. It's time I saw that, too.

Slowing to gratitude

This month, I am attempting to write 50,000 words for my second novel (you may recall that I did this in June for my first one), which means my words are precious and I'm not so sure I have any to spare (since I also write as part of my new job, which is amazing). I'm hoping you will accept this short reflection as enough between now and December (when I will tell more about my job, my life, and adventures with Ace/Jason).

Last week, I threw out my back. I stepped out of the shower and bent down and bam! I was done for. I tried popping it by twisting. I tried stretching it. I tried icing it. The spot just below my shoulder blade still caused me great pain.

Now, I had started biking to work and with a majorly painful back, that was no longer an option. Jason dropped me off at the office in the mornings, but with his new job, he doesn't get out until after six. So, there arose the question of getting home. I don't live that far from work and I begrudged the fact that I wasn't getting my normal yoga and biking exercise in, so I decided to walk home.

I walked all over in Cambridge/Boston, so I assumed that I would be fine. For the most part, walking didn't aggravate my back and I actually enjoy being dependent upon my own two feet for transit. The first night, I headed out from work, matching the pace of the people around me. Pain shot from my back through my whole body, taking my breath away. I was worried I wouldn't make it. I had walked away from the bus stop and going back to it would be the same distance as making it halfway home. I took a deep breath and moaned, stopping for a moment. I adjusted my bag and began trudging up the hill again at a rapid pace. I made it only a few steps before the pain became so great that I couldn't continue.

From the corner of my eye, I witnessed fifteen people blow past me. I felt embarrassed and wondered how I looked to them. I am healthy looking enough. I am young. I wondered if they might wonder why I couldn't just walk. I must have appeared so out of shape. I started again, but slowed down to the point of a nice stroll. I realized my back didn't hurt (well, not the same way).

I don't like being slow. I don't like not being able to fix problems or find a solution. It frustrated me that I couldn't move more quickly because of one spot in my back, for goodness's sake. I wanted to fix my back and be done with it. But, there was no solution for my back, it just needed time (it still does need some time). I realized then that if I backed off a bit and didn't try to make my body feel 100% immediately, I could actually still function normally for most things, just a bit more slowly. I made my way home some time later and managed not to do anything that require movement from my back for the whole night.

Walking home the next day, I was tempted to rush again, but I slowed my pace and moved steadily toward my street. As I waited for a light that I barely missed (and would have historically run to catch), it dawned on me that slowing down might be exactly what I need right now. It's hard for me, nay nearly impossible for me, to not know what to do about my father's illness. I can't make him better and, honestly, I can't make everyone around him stop hurting. My own lacking has weighed down upon me heavily and like when my back seized up, I just want to rush through it. Get done with the pain and onto the feeling good. But, it turns out, that's not how life works. I don't know if my father will get better. I don't know if he will get worse. We don't have a definite prognosis, so rushing through anything won't make a difference. There's nothing to rush toward. As much as it hurts (both my back and facing my father's potential death and definite suffering), there's nothing I can do but sit with it. Sit with it and work through the pain slowly. It's a kind of surrender I haven't experienced in a long time and to allow myself to be this free, this responsive to what happens around me without an intention of fixing it, is a new kind of adulthood.

When I finally made it home the second day, I slowly climbed the stairs to find my big black dog whipping his chow tail around wildly, greeting me with love. On the counter, a simple note said, "I love you." It was a small victory, a small reward for my own perseverance. As I plopped down in the bed and my back stopped feeling like anything, gratitude washed over my body. I was home.

My father and the election

I've been promising a lot of people that I would update my blog, so here I am. So much has changed since my last blog post and I can't help but laugh. I was so full of anticipation and delight. Well, I had my last day at the job I started in September today and am moving on to a position where I will be able to use my degree and training. It's a real triumph in Sierraland. And, while I'm about as excited as I've ever been to start this new position in two days, I'm not so chipper at the moment. I'm in a great deal of pain and I can't make it stop. My biological father, Paul, is ill. Very ill. He's been in the hospital since Saturday with liver and kidney failure. While the seriousness of his illness is clear, the prognosis and how we will cope with it is dreadfully unclear.

I've been in shock since I found out. Well, since my step-mother, Maggie, called me a week ago and told me he wasn't doing well. We discussed his condition and considered ways of working together to provide my father the care he needs. See, my dad isn't just sick, he's poor. His insurance dropped him when he became ill last October and he and his wife have been struggling to pay for his meds. They can't afford in-home care for him and they can't afford for Maggie not to work. But, her unemployment is running out and she can't find a job close enough to home. They're damned if they do and damned if they don't. When Maggie told me on Saturday that he'd been rushed to the hospital it wasn't just the pain of his being sick that struck me, it was the helplessness of not being able to make things better. As good as my life is, I can't afford to take care of my dad. So, here we are. Lost.

Forgive me if I preach today. Forgive me if I use my own situation and my own pain for political reasons, but I have long believed that the personal is political. We as a country are choosing our leader for the next four years at the polls tomorrow. I hope you will keep my father and his situation in mind when you vote and select someone who believes everyone has the right to quality healthcare, regardless of the their pre-existing condition or the amount of money they have in the bank. I don't care if you're fiscally conservative. I don't. I don't care if you think Obama hasn't done "enough." What I care about is people like my father who deserves to not have to suffer excruciating pain until the end of his life because he's not wealthy. What I care about is people like my friends who deserve to be able to marry their lovers one day, regardless of their gender. What I care about is women everywhere being able to receive affordable check ups and preventative care from Planned Parenthood. What I care about it creating a country of compassion, not one hellbent on ignorance and the consolidation of wealth among the select few.

So, I'm sorry if you find my conclusion offensive, but I'm sick of pretending like who the president is doesn't affect my life. I'm sick of pretending like I'm zen enough not to be terrified. Because I am. I'm afraid that by Wednesday morning, we will have elected a president who is on the wrong side of history.

What's next?

Oddly, it feels like I'm finishing up a lot right now. I've found a job, so the wonder (and terror) around that is mostly over. I finished my first novel, so the constant grind of editing and writing and rewriting is over (for now). I've opened a checking account, exercised the dog, planned out my vacations (and weekends) for the next few months, and gotten settled in my new apartment. Really, what's left?

Well, that's how I feel for about two minutes. And, then I start working on the storyboard for my new novel. Who are the characters? What are they worried about? What happens first? What's next? It's rather exciting. And, I gotta get that "old" novel to some publishers. Luckily, I have a few literary type friends reading it and giving some critique, but I gotta get it on to the professionals. Gotta try to find an agent. And, I have to do my job. What will it be like to get up at 6:30am everyday? Will I be good at it? Which bus should I take? Where will I sit while at work? Will lunch breaks be awkward? What will my everyday look like? What will I do when I don't get to see Jason every thirty seconds? (No, really. This is causing me some stress)

So, as much as it feels like things are ending, only a fool would forget that infamous lyric: "Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end. Yeah."

That leaves me at one exact point in time: the beginning (which just so happens to be the end).

Joy and Luck

Yikes. So, it's been a while. A long while. Since we last spoke, I packed everything I owned, drove a truck cross-country with Jason and Ace, interviewed for and secured a job, went camping, visited Pagosa, furnished an apartment, got a new driver's license, registered to vote, and so much more. It's really been a whirlwind since August 5 (about 6 weeks ago...again, yikes). I've vacillated between real, tangible fear that I will never find a job and elation at living in this new and engaging city. I've been high and low and in between. Ace and Jason have kept me steady when my own legs feel a bit like jelly and it's really the idea of creating a home and a life that has kept me afloat when the bad days have come.

Lately, though, I've had a distinct feeling that my life is almost too good. My mom, Betty, described a similar suspicion to me. She was standing at Niagara Falls when it hit her. She had honestly never thought she would get to see this natural phenomenon and while standing there with my oldest sister, she thought of when the Psalmist said, "my cup runneth over" (23:5). As soon as she shared this story with me, Goosebumps ran up my legs and tears welled in my eyes. That was it. This was the idea I'd been searching for. You see, even at my most frightened (and I've felt more genuine fear this summer than I have in a long, long time), I couldn't help but feel that everything was okay. And even more, that I was living a charmed existence.

My cup runneth over, simply put. I have a partner who loves me. A dog who is happy and well-behaved. Many of my friends live in my city. I have an amazing apartment. I landed a great job where everyone is excited for me to start on Sept 25. I finished my novel. My parents gave me the car I learned to drive in (and are helping me budget to buy a new-to-me car in a year). What can I complain about? Yeah, things are tight financially. Yeah, Jas and I have some kinks to work out. Yeah, I have to learn how to live my life for myself, but in concert with another human being. Yeah, I think I can do all that.

Thanks for reading. I hope my happiness doesn't come across as bragging. I feel lucky. And, above that, I feel humbled by my own luck. The world can be a harsh and violent place, but today, it's a place I love.



Ace and Jason enjoying a heartfelt reunion after Jason (oh so brazenly) waded out into deep water.

Carbondale, CO

The Heart's Vocation: a reflection on officiating Krista and Joseph's wedding

Yesterday, I officiated the wedding of my friends Krista Pearson (now, Bruckner) and Joseph (still Bruckner). It was a wonderful day, without a cloud in the sky and the ocean unfolding behind us over the bay on Whidbey Island in Washington.
            I've spent months writing and re-writing portions of the ceremony. I've spent hours fretting over whether or not one paragraph or two will be appropriate. I've spent sleepless nights wondering why on earth they chose me, but knowing that I felt totally excited by the opportunity. Basically, I've been a little crazy.
           When I landed in Seattle, I was a little overwhelmed. I'd been in Denver for a little over 24 hours (in which I interviewed for a job) and my flights had been red eyes and pre-dawn take-offs. I hopped in the car with two sisters I'd never met before and we started our two hour (ish) drive to Whidbey. We all chatted and tried to get to know one another and I felt suddenly unprepared. I had spent so much time meditating on marriage and love and being alone with my thoughts that I'd forgotten that I might need to actually talk to people once I arrived. And, for my first night I'd be staying in a house full of bridesmaids and the family of the bride. I took a deep breath, texted my boyfriend that I was afraid I wasn't cut out for this, and sucked it up. I asked myself for more than I thought I could give because it wasn't really about me. It didn't matter that I've been much more reclusive and introverted as of late. I had a job here: I was going to make this ceremony amazing. And, in the process, I was going to put worried fathers' hearts at ease, help busy mothers finish details, listen to stories from some of the most lovely grandparents I'd ever met, and get to know the bridesmaids and groomsmen. In other words, I needed to lock it up.
          I'm so glad I did. This celebration was a joy to take part in. I made friends I hadn't expected to, heard the story of Krista's birth (thanks to Martin), and was able to share my own thoughts and hopes about love with a whole audience who'd gathered to celebrate Krista and Joseph. What a privilege.
          There's not a whole lot left to say, but I figured I'd share my main reflection from the ceremony.

The Heart's Vocation: A Sacred Union

by Sierra E. Fleenor, Wedding Officiant

August 5, 2012

I am awed by the commitment Krista and Joseph are embarking upon today. It has brought a hush over my heart and given me pause. My hope is that you will take a moment to join in this pause with me. And, since they’ve decided to entrust their ceremony to me, I guess you have to.

            Marriage is often remarked upon as a sacred union. For some of us, the term sacred is marked by the divine presence of God. For others, it is a term used to denote an object, or this union, as something not to be taken lightly. Either way, it seems appropriate to reflect on sacredness.

            Sacred, in one sense, means “set apart.” Something that is out of the ordinary in some way, but not necessarily by its nature. Rather by its treatment. It is not the thing itself that makes it sacred, but the recognition of it as set apart. We are responsible, thus, for demarcating the sacred in our own lives.

            Marriage, as many people who live it daily will tell you, is mundane. It is even pedestrian. And, I think in some rights it has to be. People who choose to be married (or fight for the option) have thrown their lot in with another person. And, sometimes, life is boring. It's not all romantic comedies or dramatic inquiries once you get inside a marriage. Sometimes it is simple. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes it just is.

            If that’s the case, then how is marriage sacred? Why should we view this daily task as something special? Why even have this service? Why don't Krista and Joseph just high five each other and call it a day?

            Because marriage is a vocation. And, what is more sacred than one’s vocation? A vocation is not a job. It is not an occupation. It is a calling. Something you are compelled toward the same way a bee knows how to return to its hive: it’s instinctual. And, if we take seriously the words of Thomas Aquinas, read to us by Derek, we see that this same drive, this basic magnetic pull holds Krista and Joseph together in their cause, as they look to one another and say:

My soul has a purpose, it is

to love;

if I

do not fulfill

my heart’s vocation,

I suffer.

            I am awed today because I should be. The sacred should always awe us, render us silent, give us pause. And, later, it should bring us triumphant joy and dancing.

            What a glorious thing to be in the presence of love. What a glorious thing to be in the presence of so many loves unfolding and opening to the hearts of Krista and Joseph. It is a beauty to behold. If you stop for a moment, you can almost feel the sacredness of this moment and this bond wrapping around each of us, encompassing all of us for this moment in time. Here we are, each made holy in our participation in this sacred act of marriage.

Writing and Failure

Yesterday, I failed. I'd been writing three pages everyday for 30 days. Mostly, I was trying to get things in order for the wedding I'm going to officiate on Saturday, but also, I was getting things out of my head, things I was holding onto that weren't really helpful. And, I completed 30 days. My next goal was 100. Then, I just forgot. I forgot to write. Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal. Maybe you wouldn't call that failure, but it is. I'm not going to give myself a break and say it's all part of the process or that I can do it again. Yes, those things are true, but I think it's important for me to face failure.

I've failed a lot in my short life. People tend not to believe that when they talk to me about what I have done. I have written a lot. I have completed two degrees. I have worked and paid off loans (and gotten new ones, but no one focuses on that). I have worked through a lot of personal and emotional issues. I have faced my demons. But, sometimes, the demons have won.

I've ruined relationships and run out of money and lied to my parents and turned my back on my friends. I've been selfish and cruel and given up. I've simply forgotten that I had things to do. I've canceled on people and overslept and fallen down stairs and missed feeding my dog (only once). And, yesterday, I forgot to write. It's a simple task. I can usually finish my three pages in nine to twelve minutes. I even told Jason I needed to write at some point.

Instead, I watched television and made meals and caught up with an old friend. It was actually a really wonderful day, so I can't even say that I regret not writing. I also have no intention to punish myself. But, I do think I need to own up to that fact. I need to accept that I disappointed one person: me.

So, what's the lesson? What should I take away from my failure? What do I need to understand about why I failed? Let's see if I can't use all that book learning and critical thinking to draw some conclusions.

First, I think it's important for me to realize why I write. I write because it is my life blood. I write because I am a better person when I spend time putting words on the page, whether I'm writing a story or journaling or blogging or whatever. I write because it's who I am, but it's also a discipline. Something I have to craft into a practice.

Second, I need to accept what writing does to me. The peace of mind it brings is what writing does for me. What it does to me is a whole different thing. Like any attempt at self-improvement (I'm thinking here of meditation or therapy, weight loss or exercise), writing has an effect on me of dredging up my ugly stuff, reviving my demons and setting them loose on me. I fight more with the people I love. I draw away. I feel weak and lost. Like meditation, though, I find that if I stick with it, I can reach the other side. I can withstand the barrage of self-doubt and self-hatred. I can complete the task at hand and still be part of a loving community. Writing makes me sane, but it can also drive me crazy.

Third, I have to face the consequences of writing. It slows me down. I am less productive on a grand scale because writing takes a lot of energy when it is done well, and it takes time (more time than that actually spent facing the screen) to write. I've also found that writing as much as I do has actually made me less capable at speaking off the cuff. I'm not quite as quick-witted as I once was.

Finally, I need to remember to be grateful for this capacity. Talent is a gift. Art is a discipline. I owe it to myself to discipline my talent into something worthy of sharing with others if I want to continue to call myself a writer. And, this is why not writing one day is a failure. Because that's what I've decided it means to be disciplined. Maybe I'll never make it. Maybe I'll never be a daily writer for a long period of time, but that's the goal. And, you have a goal so that you have something to work toward.

So, maybe you think I'm being hard on myself. And, maybe I am, but I think failure provides the unique opportunity to look around and say, "Well, how exactly did I get here? And where would I like to be?"

Maybe this isn't my happiest post. I guess lately none of them have been. But, I feel comforted by my own shortcomings and I enjoy trying to make myself a better, a more complete, person. Now, off to finish what I've started. My novel needs editing.