When I decided to write things down, I established a handful of guidelines:
1. I will write for myself, not an audience. Big love for readership and comments, but I couldn’t fathom the pressure of catering to the masses.
2. I will write on thoughts typically expunged by muttering incoherently. When a three year old requests you quit talking to yourself because it’s interfering with her daydreaming, it’s time for a new outlet.
3. I will only write about the positive. Critiques and complaints are a slippery slope. I want to remember what’s decent about my waking hours.
4. I will obsessively reduce the word count by 20%. Edit girl, edit.
Easy enough. However, the last month has found me routinely silenced by #3. Not snarking at the day’s innumerable disappointments is doable (if not a means to bask in the absurd). It’s the not reflecting on the many disappointments in myself that is more of a challenge.
Rest assured, I’m not going to delve into an alphabetic listing of my insecurities. Eeyore has left the building.
But when you’re in a funk – or in my case, emerging from a funk - the habit of self-flogging can be hard to shake. I react to a calm present by ruminating over past mental chaos. I dare not let my brain be duped by this obvious fluke in the universe. I’m a type-A, repressed Catholic realist on too much caffeine. Personally, I think I could be much worse.
Yesterday morning, I read this story (click here) and, was told an equally obscure, slightly profane, yet somehow-this-applies-perfectly-to-my-life anecdote. Sharing these two inspirations with Mark, we whole-heartedly agreed my new life mantras should be stitched onto a couple of pillows. And thanks to the magic of photoshop, they (digitally) have been. Look Ma, no thimbles!
Translation: Fixating on things in the past I could not/ would not have changed is moot. Reserve such effort for the present.
Translation: I need to pick my battles, particularly those with myself. Otherwise, I have no one to blame but me, should I find five feet of galvanized poultry, answering to the name of Beyonce, at my doorstep.
Okay, so should these ever actually be stitched, they may concern certain house guests. Though I do think the grandmas in our lives could appreciate the spiritual motivation found in a bit of *thoughtful* crass versus the weary results of run-on sentiments. And, these would be 100% hypoallergenic. Prolific AND practical, consider them my Big Metal Chicken Soup for the Soul.
(Knock, Knock quote and any obscure-yet-awesome chickenesque references are 100% attributable to thebloggess.com)
