Wow. It’s been quite a winter for me here. I am finally starting to reach the proper edge of sanity here with the weather creeping up into the 40s on multiple days per week.

That other edge of sanity was… well, the wrong edge to be on.

Yesterday, I took a day off from work just to give myself some time to breathe. Last week I covered for a coworker all week, and this week had been One of Those Weeks, so I decided to take a day for no reason.

I ate a bagel for breakfast and took some donations to the Salvation Army. Then? I shopped. I used to love shopping when I was younger and had no business shopping. That’s how I developed credit card debt. But shopping yesterday was a different kind of experience. Every store I entered, it was like I had a laser focus to ignore what I didn’t want. I felt no pressure to purchase anything at all. And when I did want something (like a vintage-looking Coke magnet and a candle) I didn’t beat myself up over it. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, pictured the items in my home, and moved forward.

The last stop of my day was a fairly new furniture store in the town where I grew up. The location of the store was a guns-n-ammo store and a swap shop for much of my young life. Recently, it was a Curves fitness center. Now, it’s an adorable second-hand furniture store with clean and cool items.

I dipped a toe in the water and bought a magazine rack. It was low and sturdy, mission style, and just the right color. Today I went back and bought a bookshelf and a full-length mirror.

The feeling of relief I have from buying furniture is immense. I have lived for so many years without bookshelves, without dressers and full-length mirrors. I spent much of my 20s feeling unsettled and on edge. Now, I realize what my problem was. I couldn’t root. I had no place to call my own. I was living in the homes of others, trying my best not to be an imposition. My own style had no place to thrive.

I have always loved putting rooms together. I often lament that I didn’t become someone who does this for a living, someone who designs spaces for living and working and decorates them. I often think of places in terms of what should be moved where (and which walls should come down if at all possible).

So, this is an old part of myself long forgotten. I had to give up much of my furniture in 2001, and much of my decor lived in storage until last July. I feel like I am slowly getting my “eye” back, slowly remembering what looks good where and how I like my space to feel.

I’m making myself right at home.

I am finally getting around to setting up my office-slash-craft room in the third bedroom. Thank you, kind-of spring.

In the process of going through everything I have owned and deemed worthy of toting across the country and across the state, I have found some… interesting things. I found my entire CD collection, in various stages of disrepair. I found my old research project from my brief, yet miserable, foray into graduate school. I found beanie babies, the bikini I wore when i was a baby, an old Writer’s Market from 2006, old Wal-Mart receipts with poems scratched out on the back, Weight Watchers journals from 2001 (tuna fish and granola bars much?), and about eleventy bazillion notebooks with attempted and abandoned journals.

I am tempted to shake my head at the odd assemblage of crap that I have chosen to hang on to and spend energy moving over the years. But, every once in a while, my emotional packrattery pays off. Today, I found this:

What may, to some people, look like clutter I should have stopped moving 8 years ago, is, in reality, a testament to the human spirit. To ingenuity, to grace and creativity under pressure.

In the summer of 2002, my best friend had a pretty hefty schedule of bar gigs. I went with her whenever I could to help carry gear, set up, tear down, count tips, get water, you name it. Because of her busy late night schedule, she sometimes found herself without some of the things she needed for the night. Makeup, maybe, or a tip jar, once in a while. But the worst thing she could forget, the most crucial to her being able to play for three hours straight (other than a guitar, obviously), was her capo. If you don’t know what a capo is, it’s basically a little clamp that holds down all of the strings at once on the guitar’s fretboard, and this raises the pitch of the strings so you can play a wider variety of songs without having to re-tune the guitar between songs.

One night, she did forget the capo, and we had to resort to rummaging through my car for something, anything, that would work instead. I have no idea why I had spoons in my car, but, then again, see above for my indiscriminate packing habits. We foraged around in the car until we came up with a spoon and a hair tie, which I had to break apart and re-knot to get tight enough to put the spoon close enough to the fretboard to allow it to act as a true capo.

So we did. We made it, we did it, and you can actually still see where the guitar strings wore into the brown part of the spoon.

That summer was full of opportunities to make do with a little bit. To get by on what either of us could find, to eat ice cream sandwiches in the Wal-Mart parking lot, to swim in my parents’ pool, to stay up late and get up early and still have a ridiculously fun and full life. We are still those girls somewhere inside, and we still have what it takes. I was so happy today to get that reminder.

Have you ever encountered the following scenario?

Person 1: Wow, I am having a tough day today.

Person 2: Ha! You want to hear about a rough day?! Great Aunt Gwendolyn was diagnosed with black hairy tongue last Tuesday. This after she lost her little toe to gangrene last month! To make matters worse, her poodle, Sprinkles, had an anxiety attack last night! You should count your blessings!

Person 1: …

This is so common. Count your blessings even though you are miserable. Consider yourself lucky that you even have a job in this economy. At least you can walk.

Consider yourself lucky to have something to be unhappy about.

What does this mean? Haven’t we always been told not to compare ourselves to others? Don’t try to be that skinny or that rich or that successful, and certainly don’t feel bad about yourself for living an average and mediocre life. That’s the positive side of it. Judge you by you. I get that. But the underside is something more nefarious – the elevating of ourselves by being thankful that we don’t share in others’ misfortunes.

Guess what? Thinking about all of the kids and moms and dads who go to bed hungry every night and who aren’t making it in this economy doesn’t inspire me to count my blessings. Thinking about the people who send out resume after resume and are wondering if they should just end it all to make it stop? They break my heart. I think about it often. I am a poet. The suffering of the masses does not escape my notice, I assure you.

But because others suffer, am I not allowed to aspire to more?  I already count my blessings. I don’t take the wonderful parts of my life for granted. But should I really consider myself “lucky” to be unhappy because somewhere out there, someone is unhappier than me?

That has always been true, and I think I have known since I was aged somewhere in the single digits that there was oppression and hunger and abuse and neglect and killing and torture and suffering and death in this world. And never, not one time, has that ever given me any cause to feel lucky. I always knew how good I had it, but that’s because I understood the trajectory of my life and where it could have gone horrible wrong (or ceased to exist), I was indeed happy to be alive.

Comparative misery is a myth.

Each person lives in their own small universe, and it is impossible to compare across universes. I could never comprehend the struggles of, say, a crack whore. Neither could I grasp what might send a princess into the depths of despair. Because it’s not about what makes other people miserable or happy. It’s about what makes ME miserable or happy. The feelings we feel inside our respective lives are valid. We are allowed to feel disappointed in what life has to offer right now – even when the unemployment rate is eleventy billion percent.

I am struggling right now, and everywhere I turn, the universe is responding with a resounding, “You’re lucky to be getting crumbs. How dare you expect an entire piece?”

As long as people in this world are still thinking new and creative thoughts, selling their art for money, writing books and poems and films, and making new music for the world to enjoy, I will never be content (or feel lucky) to toil away at anything less. And it’s nobody’s right to tell me I should be.

Imagine a person choking on a few crumbs (let’s imagine, just for fun, that they happen to be crumbs of mediocrity). What would you do? Would you walk up to that person and say, “You’re lucky that you have those two crumbs to choke on. Do you know how many people are starving in this world? You should count your blessings.”

No, you wouldn’t.

Man, does life get in the way of the things we want to do sometimes, or what?

I absolutely love this blog – love writing it, love interacting with my friends who read it… heck, I even love re-reading it. So sue me. Obviously if I had NO ego, I wouldn’t have a blog to start with.

I’ve been busy, but honestly, not busy enough to stop writing. I have just kind of made excuses and half-promises to “write something tomorrow” or “write something when i have an idea.” The thing is, though, I very rarely sit down to blog with an idea in mind. I just sit down, open the new post box, and get to typing.

That’s kind of true about my writing life in general. I feel I don’t have a story to tell, so I never write. Anyone who knows me personally just scoffed at that last sentence. I know better. Everyone has a story to tell. I have always believed that, and I always will. I guess it’s just a matter of finding the voice, of honing the pathway so that story can make its way to the listeners.

Anyway. Here I am! I am still here. I am still thinking myself to death, still freezing my fingers off, still praying vehemently for spring, and still, still, still trying to write something, dangit.

Lately, I have been suffering from a tad of anxiety. Nothing too serious, but when I tell you that I actually had to wear a heart monitor for 24 hours because I was having chest pains, you have to promise not to freak out. I have a very nearly perfect EKG, or whatever it is, and apparently my left ventricle is not about to collapse. Or explode. Or otherwise cause death, dismemberment, or destruction.

It’s just a little old-fashioned anxiety.

So, I have been wondering what has me so dang stressed out. This has not been a fun journey for me, tromping through my inner life to get to the bottom of my procrastination and anxiety and just the general “meh”that seems to permeate my life lately.

I do not have a solid belief that my dreams are valid.

That’s it. That is the drumbeat in my ribcage. That is my dirty little secret. I believe that I am not smart enough, not talented enough, not charming enough, and certainly not convincing enough to wheedle my way into the places I would love to be in this life.

But today, I saw something that sparked something in me. A friend of mine on Facebook was posting some pictures she snapped with her phone. They were giant icicles, like prison bars. I clicked through them, simply in awe of the massive-ness of the icicles. They were huge. They looked so thick and so strong. Immediately, I thought that they reminded me of prison bars.

I liked the pictures so much, I clicked through them again. And this time, I looked beyond the “bars.” What a gorgeous night! I love that blue twilight time during the winter months. I’d love to just walk right out into the open and breathe it all in. It’s beautiful.

It’s on the other side of those bars.

That’s a ridiculous thought, isn’t it? It’s ice, not steel bars.

That’s what it’s like for me to think that I can’t get to where I want to be. The obstacles I face are small, (although they feel huge) and they are mostly in my own head (although they seem so real).

They are not truly obstacles. They just look that way. They are mostly fear, perfectionism, and self-doubt.

Moving forward is up to me, and it can take as long as I choose. I could reach out and snap those icicles. I could hold up a hairdryer and melt them.

I could wait until the sun shines and melts them away, if I am willing to wait that long.

What happened to my New Year? It’s now more of a Gently Used Year. I have tried it on and gone out in it a few times, but it doesn’t really fit the way I want it to.

Unfortunately, the time-space continuum can’t support my request for an exchange at this moment.

Oh well. I am trying to make the most of what is turning out to be a fairly uninspiring year. I guess, when you end one year by getting married, the beginning of the following year may seem like kind of a dud.

Especially if you ring in that following year with your newly-minted husband kicking the ever-loving crap out of you in Scrabble. I guess I should have known that picking a freakishly smart partner would have at least a teeny drawback.

But I’m trying. The Mr. Thor part of life is awesome, despite his obnoxious trait of being smarter than me.

The work part of life is… well, to put it mildly, let’s all remember that “work” is a 4-letter word (Thanks for the reminder, PJ).

I have had trouble with the “other” category, though. I have had a hard  time getting going on creative projects and writing. I am creeping through books and magazines that I check out of the library. I am barely baking.

Honestly, the barely baking part is intentional. I am trying to not weigh so much, over here. When I bake, I eat – simple as that.

I did manage to crank out a few words on a short story yesterday, so I guess I’ll take that as progress. I also made buckwheat pancakes this morning, which is kind of like baking… right?

Can we start over?

I went to my local YMCA last night.

That might seem like a fairly innocuous statement, but my outer thighs would beg to differ. I haven’t worked out in any way, shape, or form in many months. Not really a year, but maybe 9 months.

As I was getting ready to go back to the locker room and change after my workout, I started coughing. Ah, yes. My poor respiratory system is almost as sore as my thighs. It’s weak, you know. It doesn’t take well to things like breathing hard or, say, breathing hard.

The cough followed me into the locker room as a kind of pathetic and exhausted wheeze. When I turned the corner to get to the locker where I had stashed my stuff, there was already a woman where I needed to be, with her stuff spread out all over the only bench. She looked at me as I wheezed, and I joked, “It’s been a while since I’ve been to the gym, and it feels like it.” Then I left the woman to change in peace. I went to the restroom, then scrubbed my hands (don’t gyms just seem like the grossest and dirtiest places you could possibly be?).

As I was leaving the restroom area, the woman came up to me and blocked my path.

“Will you take some advice from someone old enough to be your mother?”

I just stared and nodded, not sure what to expect. Was this going to be another offensive crack from a “well-meaning” stranger about my weight? Doesn’t this lady know I have already lost 35 pounds, and I am still following Weight Watchers? I’m at the GYM, for crying out loud!

She just smiled and said, “Use it or lose it. When I was younger I never cared about exercise. Now, I’m 47 and I have Parkinson’s. I don’t WALK without medicine. I swim twice a week, because I’m lucky that I can move.”

We had a brief exchange after that, but I haven’t been able to shake the  words (or the earnest way she said them) since then.

Thank you, gym lady.

I would like to frame this post by reminding you all that I have never claimed to be completely sane and reasonable. It’s just not in my makeup.

Clearly.

This morning, in an odd half-dreaming state, I half-dreamed that I was cooking the ground beef I was supposed to cook last night. Only, instead of just cooking it loose or in patties, I had used a heart cookie-cutter to form small patties first. A miniature heart cookie cutter.

Hee, hee, hee. Ho, ho, ho. What a stupid –

Yes. I tried it.

My mom called while I was cooking them and asked what I was doing. I said, “well, I had this dream I was making ground beef in the shape of a heart, so I am trying it out.”

She replied, “wow. So you’re living the dream, huh?”

Yeah. Gotta go for the attainable ones first to build confidence, you know.

I know that they don’t really look too heart-like. They kind of look like flat meatballs. But, wait.

I know you see it. How can you not? It’s emitting a soft, angelic glow. The glow of love. True love, cooked right in. In the shape of a heart. A beef heart.

This wasn’t exactly a success, I’ll grant you. But clearly, it wasn’t exactly a failure, either.

For as long I can remember, I have believed that I never finish anything.

I start. Oh, boy, do I start. I have piles of fabric, yarn, craft supplies, and half-crocheted afghans to prove that I do. Ingredients for certain  challenging recipes gather dust in my pantry. I have so many journals that are mostly blank that I could probably fill an entire Rubbermaid tote with them.

My blog sits, ready and waiting, for posts.

I used to think that I was just flat-out lazy. Or maybe that my brain just moves faster than my motivation can follow through. Or that I just have some freakish inability to finish anything. Anything at all.

The truth is, I do have many interests, and my brain does compile them quite quickly. When I am driving to work, sometimes I think about all of the classes I would like to take. Voice lessons. Guitar lessons. Pottery, dance, bookmaking. Web design, Photoshop, Excel. Let’s not forget that somewhere in here, I sincerely want to go back to grad school.

But, usually, I just sigh and say to myself, “you can’t even keep the junk mail from piling up on the dining room table.” This is code for “you are lazy and un-dedicated to even a small goal that means a great deal to your day-to-day sanity.”

Lately, I have been struggling with my diet, which is not something I have had to deal with since before July. A few other things are going on in my work, health, and family realms, and everything combined makes me feel frazzled, frustrated, and out of control.

I finally reached out to my best friend through an e-mail and gave her an overview of what was eating at me. Out of the entire long and wonderful e-mail that she typed up and sent back, one small sentence stuck out. It has been flashing in red neon in the front of my brain for three days:

“Give yourself some grace.”

Grace. You know? Filed near peace and hope. I do not give myself anything. I do not allow myself time to do the things I love. And I realized, with that small sentence, what is at the root of my procrastination habit:

The feeling that I have so many things on my NEED TO DO list that I don’t deserve to spend time on the things I enjoy. I need to work on my list. I need to clean and organize and file.

But I don’t. I procrastinate.

I spend time playing games on Facebook, reading blogs, watching football (watching football! seriously!), and my NEED TO DO list doesn’t get done. Neither does the list of things I want to do. And I think, somehow, grace is involved.

Maybe, If I am willing to give myself time to do the things that feel like play and the things that enrich me (crafts and writing, to start!), I will have more energy to do the things I NEED TO DO. This is completely counter-intuitive to the way I am hard-wired. I was taught to work first. Then, if there is time, play – but you could probably be doing more work, you know.

I am not alone. Many people operate like this. I think that is why many people come home and zone out for hours in front of the T.V. – the list of NEED to and SHOULD do and OVERDUE is completely overwhelming. So they check out. They procrastinate. I procrastinate. Rather than treating myself with a measure of grace and allowing the piles and the spreadsheets (yes, there are spreadsheets) to wait an hour, or a week? I get overwhelmed and procrastinate.

This is a sneaky and underhanded way to deal with myself. I don’t like that. I don’t like when people I am friends with or people that I work with make it seem like I am getting something by doing them a favor. Or manipulate me into doing something because they don’t know how to do it themselves. So why, why, why would I treat myself this way?

I don’t know. But I want to stop it. I want a life that I enjoy and a life that enriches me. I can’t live a life that sucks my soul and leaves me the scraps to try to cobble together something that looks moderately pleasing but is still completely lacking.

So, step one: get back to this blog that I love. Here I am. giving myself the grace and time to sit down and write out my thoughts that have been brewing for three days. I’ll let you know how it goes.

When i lived in Nashville and I couldn’t come home to be with my family for Thanksgiving, I used to cry and think about how much I wanted to move home.

Home. You know. The place where I grew up, felt stuck, moved away from, and came running back to. Home. The teeny little towns tucked away between hills and lakes. Back roads, clear nights, and Sunday dinners.

And, lest I forget:

Driving in the winter. That is the part that homesickness conveniently left out. This is what I got to do for an hour in the morning today. Also, not pictured? The hour I did it tonight, when it was dark.

Ahhh. Home.