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Beyond the fork it.

Warren phoned me this morning from San Diego, where he is working. I knew he had been watching the rugby semi-final with some ex-pats in an Irish pub somewhere downtown, and sent him a text wanting to know if he'd survived the close match without a heart attack. Turns out yes, but it was a near thing.

He asked me how my assignment was going and I told him terribly, because it is. Terribly. And only three days to go to a first exam I have yet to revise for. And another a day after that. Etc. Tense doesn't begin to describe it. The edges of my psyche are frantic and anxious: what the hell are you doing?, they ask me. What the hell have you done? They are predicting disaster and shame and terrible, terrible outcomes. The inner core is calm and seeks to reassure me: you'll get it done. Not sure how or where or what, but you'll get it done. And this version of me, the one who feels like the main, utilitarian self, co-ordinating or responding to the voices of all the others, she is left a little confused. I probably will get it done. I don't know what the hell I've been doing.

I think about it in terms of the rugby game this morning. Not an elegant win, and ill disciplined. But one where panic at the potential loss of a crown the players have been chasing hard after for four years wasn't fatal to their ability to take a breath and keep playing the game as best they knew how. Half-time, with one man and 5 points down, they could have gotten overly concerned with the job they had to do, and all their procedural memory, all the skills they have practised and practised and practised until they can do it in their sleep, would have been squished to side by the much slower and more angst ridden conscious thought. It's not the fact they won that I admire (though, good job), so much as the fact they played like they knew they could win. Even after, especially after, they'd stuffed it up quite a bit. As Ben Smith said in a post-match interview, at that stage you just focus on what's in front of you and move forward from there.

That's a whole lot different to focusing on what you could lose and all the ways you could lose it. 

I realised that this is the core of my current seeming inability to get this one last damned assignment done and get on with preparing for exams. I am not exactly sure of what's expected of me and so I'm concerned I'm not going to provide it. I've flicked back and forth between topics three times. I've had enormous trouble locating appropriate research articles, my one usually swift and highly accurate phase of a project. And in the back of my mind I have been thinking that if this does not go well, it will lead to poorer grades than I need to get in order for a doctoral scholarship next year and that will probably mean I can't justify the cost of a PhD, and that  will wipe out most of the kudos and much of the point of all the good work I have done so far.

What that lacks in rationality it makes up for in melodrama.

Fears don't need rationality in order to thrive, though do they? They just need to pull at the depths of your subconscious hard enough to trip you up and plant your face into the ground. You might get up the first time, even the second, the third, but eventually you're just too sore and scared of another fall to do it again. You start looking for danger in shadows. You can't beat fear through sheer will, not on its own terms. It doesn't play nicely, and it's louder and more persistent than you could ever be. It's like yelling at Donald Trump; he may well deserve it, and it may feel good to do, but it'll only serve to get him to yell back ten times louder and give his dumbass arguments some space and air.

There's only one technique I've found to work (once I've recognised what the particular fear is, and its almost always, you're going to stuff this up...), and that is to look that big fat old ugly fear, anxiety, debilitating concern right square in the face and ... agree with it. Yes, I may well stuff this up. Totally, that's going to feel awful. No, I may not reach the goal I had when I started this thing. Indeed, I will be very sad if that is the case. Everything that you say could happen, just may happen. You're quite right. You have my number.  And I'm still going ahead with this thing, even if that's how it ends up.

What can it say after that? You can't be anxious about the things you have accepted. It can shout as loud as it likes, for as long as it likes, and probably will, but it can no longer stop you moving forward. It's no guarantee the awful prophecies won't come true, sometimes they will. It just won't let the fantasy of a catastrophie be the thing that fells you. Benjamin Zander has an excellent phrase for the place that puts you in, he calls it "B.T.F.I" - beyond the fuck it. As he says, what would happen if you stopped worrying, stopped holding back, and stopped avoiding the possibility of mistakes and just said "Fuck it!" and then just did it. No thought of technique or of victory or defeat...just the moment. 

What would happen might be horrible, middling, glorious. And in all of those outcomes you would have earned the respect that those who take the risk to play a game, start a business, leave a harmful relationship, stand up to injustice, choose love, follow their core values in the face of personal loss, earn. The self-respect of the courageous. Ain't no pain, grief, or trauma on the planet that can strip that kind of respect away from you.

So. A few hours to finish an assignment, a few days to prepare for a raft of exams. It's not enough time, but it is the time I have. I just have to focus on what's in front of me and move forward.

Fatigued, exhausted, sleepy.

God I'm tired. Tired, tired, tired. The kind of tired a good sleep won't fix, the tired of medicine and disease and too many thoughts in too small a head. The tired of shadows and roundabouts and  ill-fitting expectations. Mostly, just tired.

But hello. I'm so glad to see you.  The birdy on the sign is too; you may have met her before, I can't remember. I haven't cartooned for a very long while, which is a shame. The world needs more naive joy. I don't have the time to paint anymore either; falling too far behind on my studies. Far too behind. I keep falling asleep when I should be writing, taking notes, revising. I'm not sure I have the puff to sprint to the end this time, like I usually do. But I will fall over in the middle of the track trying. 

I feel this is where I should insert some pithy cheery line to brighten up all our days, but I'm flat out of them. Don't mistake that for my being down, or somehow in trouble. It's just a day, and a day in which I'm tired, and tomorrow will be another day, and eventually we will reach a day when I'm full of inspiration and excitement and plans to conquer the world. I'm happy to live whatever day is in front of me. It's the greatest lesson for wellbeing that I have ever learned. Good, bad, or indifferent; the days are all temporary, and they are all worth the living.

And as my son points out, we also have icecream. Icecream in the freezer and breath in my lungs. It's a privilege, really.

I cried yesterday, a little bit, because I had to sign Nathan's school  leaving form. I asked him not to leave and I tried to laugh and I couldn't. I'm just quite little myself, I told my kids, so how can they be so grown they are leaving school? They gave me an amused/pitying look they've perfected from their father, they all bring it out when they think I'm  being a little absurd. Mostly I find it endearing but sometimes, though, it's just lonely. The same day, I bought Eilidh a baby's rugby shirt to fit her favourite soft toy dog because its his birthday on Saturday. He's going to wear it when he watches the World Cup Semi-Final 4am Sunday morning. I've asked the both of them not to wake me. She said he would like chocolate for his birthday too, and I said dogs can't have chocolate, and she said he really likes to have chocolate so he can give it to her. And I bought the chocolate as well. Thank you, she said, Winnie will remember it always. No, I told her, but you will, and that's what matters to me.

God, I'm tired.

the untranslated stars*

They are harmless enough. Pretty even. But what started as a play with paint, a play with colour, is already a little boring, a bit repetitive. They don't say anything, these pictures. They are mute and decorative, if sometimes a little lively in their silence.

If I could paint things that said something, I would paint things that say: believe in the softness of breath and the taste of light. Dance tenderly with the spinning of the world, and measure compassion by the height of forever. Trust gently, love wholly. Tuck hope into the corner of your Sunday pocket and deal kindly with her sister, despair. Keep walking. Live as the dead man you already are, and keep walking.

*also e.e. cummings. I just like the way he phrases things. 

Trust your heart if the seas catch fire.*

Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank -- but that's not the same thing. - Joseph Conrad, The Secret Sharer and other stories.

It's not the same thing at all. Somewhere along the way I have dropped any notions of success that I may have been carrying in my psychic kit bag all these years and I have no desire to pick them up again. Trinkets of approval that collapse into dust the moment you reach out to touch them. It seems to me now, there is only the swimming. And I mean to swim until I sink.

*e.e. cummings. who should have been in charge of giving everything a title in the history of ever.

Um.

One begins by plaguing oneself to no purpose in order to be true to nature, and one concludes by working quietly from one's own palette alone, and then nature is the result. - Vincent van Gogh

This was supposed to give me a break from my study, not distract me completely from it. It's distracting me completely from it. If I fail - well, I no longer care if I fail. Instead of climbing an ivory tower, I will make not-much-of-a living-whatsoever painting abstract impressionistic floral type riots of colour for the rest of my life instead.

The last few days have, in their own small way, been very hard days. Minor rejections or mistakes or obstacles cast bigger shadows than they should have because of a lifetime of major rejections and mistakes and obstacles. The sudden return to paint, and such bright, bright paint, was, I think, an antidote to the fear of never being either wholly welcome or just plain whole; these two are the theme songs of my days on earth. I think we all fear these a little, more or less. If not that, then something. I am reminded of Helen Keller, who said that the world is full of suffering and it is also full of overcoming. Pain is not to be avoided, but perhaps examined and understood. Joy too. All of everything. I think that wisdom comes no other way and at no less a cost. 

Tone deaf but happy.

 

Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight. - Orhan Pamuk

Alternative title: things I don't have time for, but do anyway.

I had expected my afternoon to be taken up with tasks and jobs and committments, but an unexpected cancellation left me with forty whole minutes to spare. These days, that's an unheard of luxury. I could taken a nap, I probably should have taken a nap, but I pulled out the rusty old acrylics, put my old clothes on, and ...

... made a real hash of things. Which was disappointing. But I still had 2o minutes, so I scraped the mess away and forgot to be anything but myself, splashing a colorful mess of rosy ranunculus type floral-like things over the canvas. It didn't take long. I love its happy colours. I've been trying hard all afternoon not to rush outside and paint a hundred more, though it's not really painting. It's kind of pushing acrylic around with my fingers. And I thought, why not a hundred more? A hundred more is an excellent idea. If you're too busy for one, paint a hundred! Or 43, which is close. One for every year I have been alive in celebration of being alive, because it's a happy thing to be here. Day 1, today. Tick.

You can follow along with each day on instagram (link over on the right), but I will write catch up posts here too.

The bigger painting is an abstract I did, that sort of worked but mostly doesn't. Up close, it's interesting and vibrant, at a distance, like on a wall, it gets insipid and uninspiring. I might paint over it. I do a mean colourful mess of rosy ranunculus type floral-like things.

Outright thievery

In the background, I've been Making Lots of Things. It's a way to cope to with the overload, I am sure we've talked about that before. I usually post the Things to Instagram and forget to post them here. They're often nothing special, but I am a little pleased with my latest (first, also only) abstract painting. I may have found my main painting niche, we will see. It takes away a lot of the anxiety when I need only focus on colour and shape, and not on perspective and line. None of which is any kind of useful information whatsoever.

I stole the above list of creative advice from Austin Kleon. I re-read it every now and then, because he's right, and it's important to remember. I'm not very good at any of it. When he says 'write the book you want to read', he means make the product you want to use, the art you want to see, the music you want to hear, the business you want to run. It's not something I take seriously enough. Who would want to read the eclectic messy pretty weirdo obtuse things I would want to read? It seems unlikely. Etc.

What is true, is that would be authentic to me, which is the point Mr Kleon is trying to make. It's different from originality - nothing is new under the sun - and is about revealing your own artistic soul. In Megan ephemeral speak.

#3 is my new goal, in all my creative work. It's hard for me, but I think necessary.

A free thing.

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world. To make injustice the only measure of our attention is to praise the Devil. ― Jack Gilbert, Refusing Heaven

I made myself some desktop wallpaper. Courage is at the heart of living well, because we risk so much of ourselves when we show the world what it is we truly love and value. As a species we seek safety in numbers and it is so hard, so painful, to be rejected after we have revealed to others something that is important to us, that even the possibility of such a thing can keep us small and silent.

My life right now is in a state of grace. Everyone is feeling well, doing well, happy. The hard yards I have put in academically and creatively are beginning to pay off. The ghosts of the past are quiet, my hope in the future bright. I am not foolish enough to expect that this small slice of time and place is one I  either 'deserve', or will last indefinitely. Life is a game of chance, and people do foolish things. Difficult things will happen. Unexpected, hard things. But I have learned to be content with life in the midst of pain and chaos, it's the ease and plenty that knock me off my stride. They are uncharted territory, and I am one of the billions of human beings who can be afraid of what we don't know, clinging without reason to the devils that we do know.

I am anxious about what comes next. There is so much I want to accomplish on a professional level: a doctorate, an academic career; a book on hope, and finding wisdom in the small solitudes; a novel about loss and love (and are not all novels, in some way, about loss and love?); finding a way to get those dumb-ass cartoon sold as cards in book stores; painting a picture book for grown-ups. I can do all these things, to a greater or lesser extent, with a lot of luck and help and a decent tail wind.  And I worry that I will cut myself off at the knees to protect my fragile sense of my own abilities rather than doing my utmost and falling short. I can feel myself wobbling and unsure, and worried, always worried, about being laughed out of the room rather than welcomed into it.

So, courage, dear heart. It's not that those goals need to be accomplished - who knows what the fates have in store? It's that I need to believe they can.

If you click on the picture above, it will take it you to its full resolution, and you can then right-click and download it on to your own computer to use as wallpaper if you would like. Or not. Either way, whatever way, anyway - may you have the stubbornness to accept your gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.

Life is also more fun if you paint glass jars.

 Life is more fun if you play games.  ― Roald Dahl

I spent the morning yesterday at a local furniture boutique, painting bits of wood for no useful purpose. It was a spur of the moment thing, I had been browsing in this shop for the first time last week and heard the owner mentioning classes to another customer. I booked and paid for a spot right there and then. I may or may not have elbowed the other customer in the eye and trampled over her with my hobnail boots in order to get on the list first. Likely not. I didn't think about anything much in that moment other than it would be fun, and I would finally get to use the Annie Sloan chalk paint that's been sitting on the top of my orange pine bookcase for over a year.

Three hours it took us, and you would think three hours painting four tiny pieces of skirting board and one small pot would leave us with about 2.5 hours in which to twiddle our thumbs, but no. We were racing to get those pots finished, though we did get to stop for a couple of minutes in the middle to drink industrial strength coffee and eat lukewarm sausage rolls. Mmmm. Yum. 

Every time they brought out a new colour, I kind of acted like a two year old being handed a jar full of bright lollies all of their own. OMG THAT'S SO BEAUTIFUL, LOOK HOW LOVELY THAT IS, SO LOVELY, ISN'T THAT JUST BEAUTIFUL, WOW, GOODNESS, RIGHT THAT'S THE REST OF MY LIFE SORTED, I AM JUST GOING TO SIT HERE AND PAINT. It was a little much. A tad over the top. I kept trying to explain myself, muttering things like, it's like food isn't it, when you see something really delicious and you can't help but get all excited? Which only seemed to confuse matters. Perhaps they were worried I was going to start licking the paints off of the plates were using. I'm not saying I wasn't tempted. I'm not saying I didn't want to try it.

Colour does that to me, always. It's a deeply resonant and gratifying joy, and anywhere I can find it, in the garden, on a flower, in a photograph, on the canvas, in food, or books, or even boring-bloody-pinterest-I'm-so-over-it, I will find a child-like pleasure in it. 

I often think there's little useful purpose to blogging pretty things and I can get embarrassed about that, like the Judge of Human Usefulness is sitting somewhere quietly in a corner putting marks in my 'wasted her time on frippery' column on his oversized black clipboard with his magically refillable red pen. But then I karate chop that supercilious bastard right on his smug chopper with my ninja thinking cleverness, because sod him. It's not about the pretty. It's about the colour, which is about the joy, and joy is not made to be a crumb.

Also, painted jars. Inherently awesome.