Okay

Okay

This morning, I've thought about how anxious I get because things change slowly. Our checking account feels too low, bills feel too big, things at work feel like they need to be fixed immediately, I need to lose twenty-three pounds before noon, and so on. Each thing requires time, lots of it, but I'm in a hurry. Anxiety has that effect on me.

Here's the thing: it's okay.

Our checking account is okay. We have money. It'd be nice to have more and someday we will.

The bills are okay too. Really, they're small enough and we have a plan to pay them. We have no bad debt. We're in better financial shape than most people I know.

At work, I'm dealing with big issues. Even if it doesn't feel okay, it will be soon. I have good systems in place. I'm working hard to make things better.

My weight is okay. It's not dangerous anyway. I wish my clothes fit better, that I didn't flinch at my reflection in the mirror. That's okay. This old body has changed. It will change more.

Okay is a sign of acceptance.

Okay is not surrender.

It's nine in the morning. The day lies ahead. There are many things on my to-do list. That's okay. Some things won't be done today. I'll be working on them for days, weeks, months, and years to come.

It's okay that mine is a life in progress.

If you're wondering, I'm mostly trying to convince myself. If you're convinced even a little, that's a nice bonus for both of us and it's even better than just okay.

Don't Be Bill

I have this idea for a piece of writing based on the intersection of a line from a Food Network show and the bumbling work of our contractor, Bill. In the show, a chef told a sloppy, hapless contestant, "Your station is bumming me out!" The contestant is voted out of the contest shortly thereafter. That chef should have seen what Bill did to our house.

The piece has been stuck in my head almost as long as Bill disrupted our home. For 98 days, I wondered if he would ever finish and despaired at the work he was doing. It all made me anxious and desperate.

With this writing idea, I've tried typing, handwriting, leaving it for a week, coming back, but still it won't come. Yet, I'm not anxious. I'm certainly not desperate.

I'm also not Bill.

I am still cleaning Bill's mess, finding his mistakes, recovering from the job he did so poorly. Bill is still bumming me out.

Work on this piece of writing has gone almost as long, but unlike Bill, I'm proceeding with skill. My station is clean. The chef (someone who looks remarkably like me) is nodding for me to proceed. You're on the right path, he says, and then boots Bill from the contest.

Ghost Page

My fountain pen ink bleeds through my Morning Pages, sheets of re-used office paper because I'm frugal like that. Lately, I keep a sheet of cardstock beneath the current page and it now bears a ghost of all those Morning Pages.

This delights me.

It looks like indecipherable code, the work of infinite monkeys, or a mysterious masterpiece page of boiled-down, concentrated thoughts from hundreds of pages. Unlike a written page, it is open to interpretation and incapable of direct meaning. Like a Rothko. Kind of like a Georgia O'Keefe. Understanding is elusive, so, I set aside trying to understand and sink into a primal sense of delight, wonder, maybe acceptance. I dream into the cardstock's ghostly image, my mind making connections as it pleases rather than trying to reach some destination.

The cardstock then becomes a metaphor for writing: I choose a direction and let the pen lead the way. My mind wanders on and off the path like a dog off the leash. The creative product is often as surprising and difficult to comprehend as the cardstock's drops of ink absorbed through all the pages that have come before.

I haven't decided if the cardstock is art. My first thought is that it's a byproduct with no creative thought going into it, but the more I consider it, the less sure I become. I love how it looks and how it is "created" three Morning Pages a day over weeks and months. I'll keep considering it, making metaphors of it, maybe finding enough meaning in that to consider it art. Regardless, I'll keep writing and enjoying all the aftereffects of that.