I don’t even really know where to begin this sweet little post (…apparently with a primer of the trite sort).
How about a brief summary of the whowhatwheres?
Since February I:
Adopted a puppy, flew to Charlotte where my near and dear best friend lives, rode a few horses, climbed a few mountains, ate a peanut-butter-bacon-and-banana cheeseburger, lifted a bunch of weights, flew to San Diego, drank a ton of microbrews, drove around (quickly) in a fancity-schmancy car, moved to the city, moved out of the city to a sweeter (i.e. less terrifying) neighborhood just outside of the city, joined 2 sand volleyball leagues, started studying for my CCNA, discovered approximately 6 new frequentable restaurants (that serve delicious items like The Donald (a duck egg and truffle pizza), made up the word “frequentable,” threw a bunch of pottery, did a healthy amount of God loving, coffee guzzling, song singing, and happy-inducing nonsense, and, well, (quite obviously) opted to write zero words about any of it.
I’m here today, though, to knock your (likely mismatched) socks off with a rambling of my usual sort (i.e. insightful and parenthetical (get excited)).
When I board an airplane, I spend a lot of time wishing I had something to write on. I’m not entirely sure what happens at 30k feet, but it’s magical for my thoughts and things.
The abovementioned bouts of air-dwelling were no different…but writing is a lot like panning for gold sometimes.
You start with a big heaping mound of nonsense and eventually do enough sifting to come out with something (moderately(subjectively)) valuable.
The more nonsense you have, the more sifting necessary.
Suffice it to say I have a lot of nonsense (shock, awe, obviously).
In the months I’ve been away I’ve spent a grand amount of time with my face between the pages of a variety of paperback goodness. My absolute favorite among the literary detritus was Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed.
Buy it, read it, obsess over it.
Cheryl also laced up and churned out a novel (rightly) titled Wild which I loved and simultaneously hated. It’s a laborious tale of her adventures while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. Much like TBT, it was spattered with the type of growth-inducing word-wrapping goodness that makes your toes tingle (…just me?).
Mostly I love Cheryl because she’s honest. Like any good, veritably acclaim-worthy author, she spills. You hear about the death of her mother and her risqué exploits and her heroin addiction and her divorce and all of the things that, as a society, we deem unacceptable and sufficiently judgeable (that’s not a real word).
And then she shrugs about it and cusses in a pretty way.
Anywho, off that soap box and onto the next!
I’ve been one of those “everything happens for a reason” types for most of my life. When things go awry, or even when I’m basking in the illuminant goodness of happy , I used to spend a lot of time attempting to peg down the thread.
You know…trying to walk craftily backward to figure out what it was or who it was that landed you in your current circumstance.
Over the years, though, the “reason” side of this mantra has more or less fallen off the proverbial boat. And since, I’ve been travelling lighter under the sweet idea that, well, everything just happens.
Sometimes more than once.
A lot of times more often than you may or might deem necessary.
If you pay attention, though, you’ll notice that it’s happening to everyone else, too.
Everyone has their own version of happening. As individuals, we really like to fall into ourselves and succumb to the idea that our happenings are unique and special and that we are the sole-source victim or victor of them.
It’s sort of true, though.
Recently I’ve decided that things in life don’t happen to us for the purpose of our being able to impart our knowledge on those who stumble along a similar path.
They happen so that when other people do brush up against and make their way down a similar path, we’ve been readily festooned with a kind of learned empathy.
Our happenings are integral to our progress and growth as individuals, but mostly they are an obligatory and notable requisite for fitting in around here.
They are the things that evoke movement. They are the things that hack away at who we are and who we want to be and dig out and fill in all of the parts necessary for us to become whoever it is that this world and all of its infuriating nonsense wants and/or needs us to be.
And they are (unbearably cliché) a blessing.
In the last few months I’ve been hastily stashing my happenings.
I’ve become a hoarder of happening.
And like Strayed I’m hoping that my happenings will lead to some notable exclamation of worth and goodness.
A few words by the lovely lady to cash this thing:
“You will learn a lot about yourself if you stretch in the direction of goodness, of bigness, of kindness, of forgiveness, of emotional bravery. Be a warrior for love.”
What she said.