“Maybe the only letters we need after our names are A.R.T.
They could stand for Already Rocking This.”
~ Jena Schwartz, poet
A friend calls me Rocket Girl. Why, I asked, would you say that. You’re the kind who’d have a kid on your hip, hold things together and get a dozen things done. For once I didn’t say ‘I don’t feel like it,’ or ‘Oh, I’m so behind.’ I thought, Yeeah.
Years ago I asked my sister, ‘Did you ever feel abandoned when we were left with other people so much growing up?’ Her answer, No, I had you. I asked my husband if he was scared during his rehabilitation after being run down by a car, us not knowing if he’d walk right again (I’d been so scared). His answer, No, I had you. A friend once said after a discussion about a challenge I was having and how I was getting thru, you’re the one who fixes things, makes them work. When I was working at the brewery we’re part owners of, I did it. Did it at the art museum where I worked. They called on me to do it. I do it at home.
Here’s the thing. . .I’ve committed to loving my life again. And that includes big changes. Stepping into arenas I don’t know how to hold together, because they’re new to me and have steep learning curves. I’m a newbie, a baby. And I want to be a different kind of Rocket Girl. Which means I’ll make mistakes, and doing things that push my boundaries. Of all the things I’ve learned in my lifetime, I never learned not be hate making mistakes. The little ones that in the end don’t really cost that much. And the big ones (I’ve done some doozies) that require a full pardon by myself. But in this new incarnation, I’ve even committed to the beauty of mistakes. I teach it. I’m gonna live it. And pushing boundaries looks a lot like Hope to me.
If you’ve read much of this blog, you know I believe in Angels and the swirly amazing interconnectedness of the Universe. That I often call what I experience magic. This magic a combination of my deep & strong intuition and observing with awareness that connection with the swirly amazingness. It often looks much like author Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s definition: where purpose and happenstance come together. I am there. Smack in the middle of that right now. Those stories will come.
Last night I gave a talk at the Southwest Writers meeting in Albuquerque around my book The Writer’s Block Myth. I sold a few books which paid for the room I got thinking breakfast the next day with writers. I forgot to announce the invitation. And forgot a couple other things. But I’m not going to thoughts of squandered opportunity. I’m going to what might be. Seeing it the next time. This is also a shift, a moving forward.
What might be next time. Next. Time.
At home I work at the dining room table in a converted 1940s one-car garage done really well. My vision for the room is a meeting space for writers. Right now, unhung pictures lean against one wall, boxes line another. One of my grandmother’s oriental rugs holds the center of the room. The room is bright, feels good. Two windows are at my back, above my head. When I turn I see the sky. A window across the room offers sky, too, tho it will soon be covered with leaves. I look thru the door and out another window. One morning before dawn I sat down at the computer, forgot to take my break for the beginning of the light. As if Dawn called me, in the middle of a project I thought to turn around. The color in the sky was beginning to fade. Had turned all pastel. It was not the usual. That’s the closest I can get to telling you what loving my life again feels like. The mess of undone and yet to be + big work and the sky calling me all in the same space. In a place that I say often, I love living here.
I can be really goofy when I’m tired. After the talk I went to the restaurant in the hotel. They were empty, shutting down tho 30 min. remained to closing. The guy said no worries, have a seat. I paid right after I ordered so he could close his register. Before my burger arrived, I rushed down the hall to the restroom to wash my hands. Just as I soaped up, a guy walks around from the stalls. ‘Hello,’ he says. blink. Am I in the wrong room, I ask, the thought just starting to register. ‘I think you are,’ he replies. I ran out with wet, soapy hands. My first thought when I entered the right room. . .the women’s is nicer, and a chuckle. I passed on the laugh to the guy in the restaurant. Nice end to the day, I thought.
My friend who calls me Rocket Girl also agrees I’m goofy. That is part of loving my life again, too. Being seen as the fullness of me with right parts. One part not canceling the other. And in a weird kind of way which may appear contradictory, it comes at a time when I split my face to the world. One side – my vulnerable, flawed, moving thru stuck and uncertainties, having a tad of discomfort at times oh-so-human. The other where you learn I have what you want. Doing what all teachers do. We show up in a way you need us, and let you know we understand ‘cause we’ve been there. I think that makes sense.
I’m gonna sign off with something I’ve longed to say for years: I love my life.
Tell me. . .how do you love your life?
I’ll tell you a secret. . .never go by appearances. The burger in this old hotel was excellent, and cooked just right the way I like it. Something I don’t say often about burgers.
Rocket Girl Typewriter Key Image created for me by Mary Anne Radmacher