A writer's lament

I've noticed lately that, as a writer, or more specifically, a playwright, I've had the urge to quit on a daily basis for a few months now. Maybe it's because I'm working on a script that I find particularly challenging; not the good kind of "this is so exhilarating" challenging but the kind where you stare at the page for ten minutes, write one short line of dialogue, and wait another ten minutes for a vague idea of what the next line will be.

The first almost complete draft I wrote of this script was surprisingly easy, probably because I was vomiting every cliché known to man onto the page. When I reread it, I thought: "Well, good. Now that this stinking turd is out of the way, I can get down to writing the real thing." But the real thing is really f*cking hard. Once I stripped away all the predictable crap and was left with space for originality, the empty whiteness of the blank page was staring back at me, as if to say: "I don't know if you have what it takes." 

Why I ever thought this would be easy, I don't know. It's excruciating. You're probably thinking: "Then why don't you just quit?" The answer I wish were true is that I "have" to write; I can't not write. The real answer is: "My ego won't let me quit." Where would I be without my delusions of grandeur? My daydreams of worldwide fame and amassed fortune? I've devoted my entire life to developing my tortured artist persona. How could I possibly exist as anything else? I can't abase myself to mere mortal status. I've convinced myself I have a unique voice that should be heard, if only I could get my mental ass off the proverbial couch.

Obstacles to my creativity also arise because outside forces constantly limit me to wading in a cesspool of mediocrity, my brain floating about in a formaldehyde-filled jar like a relic of some distant past when it mattered if I used it. After a while, my instrument atrophies, and I have to reeducate myself in its proper use, if only to claim the amassed fortune of my vivid imagination.

I read an excellent blog post on Cracked.com recently about creativity and I was very grateful to have found it. It basically stated that if you want to write something, or be creative in any way with the intention of producing an end product and sharing it with an audience, just f*cking do it and shut up already. No one cares whether you write it or not, so if you want to do it, then go right ahead and stop waiting around for someone's approval; also, stop making excuses for not doing it.

It was a sobering read. I mean, no one gives a shit if I finish my play or not. No one gives a shit if it gets produced or not. Ironically, I found this out when I actually had a show produced. I was thrilled that my script would finally see the light of day. I was hoping for a huge, life-changing mega-hit. It turned out to be a mild success. I got some great feedback and, in general, people seemed to like it. Then it closed, and that was it. Nothing changed. Nothing earth-shattering happened. I wasn't suddenly in demand. The numerous rejections continued. So why keep going?

I suppose because anything worth doing isn't easy. If it were, everyone would be doing it. Although, sometimes it does feel like everyone is trying to be a writer, so where does that leave me? Surrounded by thousands, if not tens of thousands of others with the same idea, or better ideas, than me. Sure, I've heard the oft-repeated advice to "find my own voice" and keep writing about what inspires me, but if no one's interested, isn't it like a tree falling in the forest? Does anybody hear?

"L'enfer, c'est les autres."

I'm not sure what's worse - being excluded or being misunderstood. Maybe they're the same thing.

This feeling of exclusion has permeated my entire life. Maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm an introvert. I generally prefer being alone (or with my boyfriend) to being with other people and I don't make friends easily. I can quickly shut down a relationship and freeze people out for reasons only known and understood by me. 

I have a peculiar sense of humour. Luckily, some people get it. Others don't. I remember cracking a joke once during an office event which I thought was quite a brilliant play on words, if somewhat inappropriate. It was met with silence and thinly-veiled looks of consternation. It was a bit of a shock to realize how conservative an audience I had. Sure, there's humour in the office, the obvious kind, but I guess there was no place for my Family Guy low-brow kind of humour. Message received.

As a woman with no children, I'm cast in a grey zone as some unfinished piece, often misunderstood. Why didn't you want to have children? You can't possibly understand until / unless you have children of your own. What's wrong with you? You must hate children. Well, I do hate some children when they have no boundaries, discipline or sense of etiquette, however, that can usually be attributed to the parents. There are other children I adore whose honesty, whimsy and spontaneous creativity I find endearing.

Familial relationships can range from incredibly meaningful to despair-inducing. A close relationship I had with one of my cousins, the closest thing to having a sister I'll probably ever have, blew spectacularly apart about a decade ago. It took a few years before we even spoke to each other again. Now, we cross paths at family events, say a few polite words and move on.

Part of me thrives on being an outsider and another part is deeply wounded by exclusion. I like not being easy to categorize and yet desperately yearn to be understood. If you're familiar with the Enneagram, I'm a classic Type 4 personality, wanting to feel different, special, unique, yet all the while wanting to fit in; an unfortunate paradox. 

It's very tempting to simply withdraw when I feel misunderstood or excluded, thus exacerbating the very circumstances causing me pain. Self-preservation wins over a balanced emotional perspective which is hard for me to find these days. My inner child is throwing tantrums, complete with irrational, egocentric demands that my adult self knows are completely ridiculous, all in the name of perpetuating some warped idea of a "successful" social persona before the very people I want to run away from.

Sartre was right. "L'enfer, c'est les autres."

When you think you're a stinking pile of shit...

The power of positive thinking. I'm trying to cling to this notion even as I feel myself slipping further and further away from it. I know from experience that this kind of stuff does work. Being clear about my intentions, creating a vision board, believing that the seemingly impossible is possible.

But then life decides to throw some curve balls. Is this to test my faith? Or bring me back to "reality"? I'd like to think it's the former. As a writer, one must get used to copious amounts of rejection but after a while, rejection takes its toll. Self-esteem plummets, leaving plenty of room for self-doubt to creep in.

What if I'm shit? What if my writing is no good? What if nothing ever comes of this? Then I remind myself that I have a production coming up next year, which is a big f*cking deal, and that I had a short play produced last fall. It received mixed reviews, which felt like a sharp arrow through my heart, although the few words mentioned about it in a major paper were positive. However, people to this day tell me that short play was one of their favorites (it was performed with nine others as part of a festival), and that it brought them to unexpected places. What more could I ask for?

All I wanted a few years ago was a production. I have one in the hopper, and now I want multiple productions. It's a trap, really, a thirst that will never be quenched if I focus solely on end results without enjoying the journey. It's like nothing can happen "fast enough". I'm so anxious to legitimize myself as a writer but I must be careful not to intertwine my self-worth with my accomplishments or perceived lack thereof.

I think I need to relax, breathe, have fun and not worry about "how" things will come about. I'm doing my part. I just need to trust the Universe a little more and stop being so impatient. I mean, really, how hard can that be?

What to do when one gets metaphorically punched in the face

As an artist, there's nothing quite like being rejected, repeatedly. And for some reason, certain rejections hurt more than others. I received what I felt was a crushing blow yesterday. Tears were shed, Advil taken, cocktails had. On the plus side, I've got some projects lined up, some things "in the hopper", as they say, so it's not a total travesty.

The Universe seemed to be on my side, ready with timely "coincidental" readings and information that crossed my path at just the right time, reminding me that perhaps it wasn't meant to be because there are even greater things waiting in the wings, and I shouldn't worry about "how" my career as a successful playwright will come about, as long as I do my bit every day, take those baby steps, follow leads, write.

I had to calm my ego down that so eagerly wants to prove itself and "be somebody" not realizing I already am somebody and have nothing to prove. Of course, that's easier said than done considering the entirety of Western society is based on competition.

It's not necessarily who can be the best, but who can be the loudest, flashiest and most popular. Truly trying to be the best at what you do, becoming a master of something is, in my opinion, a quiet art. It requires discipline, patience, perseverance and the knowledge that it may take a lifetime, and that the journey is, in fact, the destination.

I was comforted by the fact that I really could let go of worrying how to make things happen and just focus on a general end result, i.e. having a creatively fulfilling career, working with incredibly talented people, etc... instead of getting attached to specifics. My little brain can't possibly fathom the infinite possibilities the Universe has at its disposal to make my wishes manifest.

And so, I attempt to trust the unseen and assuage my bruised ego.

If it bleeds, it leads.

Yesterday, a tragic event happened in Boston." Did you hear? Have you seen the news?" Yep. Very sad. Besides the usual niceties one utters so as not to seem like a complete sociopath, I remained unmoved.

Frankly, I'm surprised worse incidents don't occur on a regular basis in the good 'ol US of A, what with their rather large contingent of right-wing, gun-slinging religious zealots, impotent government and global animosity towards them following years of questionable foreign policy decisions.

Of course, I would never wish for any harm to come to anyone but am I supposed to care more because yesterday's victims were mostly white North Americans? This kind of thing happens every day in the Middle East. And what about Africa? Paris Hilton has received more air time than the Rwandan genocide.

So no, I will not ask "how high" when the media arm of the corporate oligarchy tells me to jump. CNN's endless coverage of such events can really be boiled down to emotional manipulation, whipping us into a frenzy of fear, despair and rage.

One of my colleagues described the BBC's coverage of the event: "Here's what we know right now." A few minutes later.... "and in other news". Sane, balanced media coverage. Is that too much to ask?

Our very own CBC has morphed into CNN North. All I could hear last night was conjecture: "Well, it could be terrorism. We don't know. It could be a domestic attack. We don't know. It could be, it could be, we don't know, we don't know. Well, if you don't know, then give us the facts you do know and shut the hell up. Stop exploiting these events and turning them into a voyeur's  festival of horrors. It's insulting to us, your viewers, and demeaning to the victims of the crime.

When your worst enemy is... you.

It's unusual for me to retain anything about my dreams, unless I immediately write them down upon waking. So when I clearly remembered one sentence, one fundamental idea, I figured it might be important.

You see, I've been struggling of late with what Buddhists call "aversion" (anger, bitterness, resentment, irritation, etc, etc). I was spinning myself into a frenzy over things I have no control over, and that's a slippery slope. Some issues were legitimate and I felt I needed  to speak up. But once I'd done everything I could do about "out there", I still spun out of control and that's when all I wanted to do was lash out, to the detriment of myself and cherished loved ones.

I realized there comes a point when all you can do is turn inward. You can't keep trying to control what's outside of you because 1) there will always be something else popping up and 2) it's exhausting. The challenge with turning your attention towards yourself is that it entails taking responsibility for your feelings and behaviour. Who the hell wants to do that in a culture of narcissism and blame?

Buddhist philosophy suggests we turn toward our aversion, in whatever form it takes, and remove our attention from the object we think is causing the unpleasant feelings or sensations. I've only recently scratched the surface of this practice but I tell ya, it is some powerful shit, incredibly self-revelatory.

Sitting with some resentment one evening, I immediately noticed that this felt quite foreign as we're so apt to blame things outside ourselves for our negative feelings. It was also immediately elucidating as I could no longer ignore the true source of my irritation - me.

Fear. It's all fear. My fear. Fear of disappearing, of being forgotten, of not being noticed, of not being good enough, of not measuring up. And I saw how my fear was distorting reality and causing me suffering. That's not to say my anger and resentment just melted away. It didn't. It still hasn't. But I'm  consciously trying to use it to learn more about myself rather than directing it outward and staying stuck in the same vicious cycle.

And then I had that dream I mentioned earlier, and I retained this: "Nothing really matters." My interpretation of this is that our human experience is nothing but an illusion, so we can remember our true nature, so the Universe can know itself. Nothing really matters because it's not real. As Marianne Williamson states: only love is real. Where there is no love, there is only illusion.

It's a big pill to swallow, I know, because, whether we like to admit it or not, there's a part of us that thrives on confrontation, on asserting our "importance", our "knowledge", our perceived "superiority". However, we waste much less energy giving up that fight because it's one we'll never fully win. Sure, there may be small victories along the way, but we'll never win the battle until we remove ourselves from it.

According to Buddhism, the spiritual path consists of the non-reactive witnessing of aversion. Easier said than done, but not impossible. I'm still taking those first few shaky steps towards something new, but really, what other choice do I have?

Hypochondria is overrated

So it's dawned on me recently that I'm a hypochondriac. Sad but true. I see a red mark on my skin, probably from my bra, I immediately think it's skin cancer. I have a canker sore on my tongue. Cancer. I'm pooing dark pink (because I've eaten beets but I only found that out later and in the moment thought my insides were coming out through my butt hole). Must be colon cancer.

The worst possible thing I can do is look that shit up on the Internet. So I do. And it doesn't help. It only feeds into my mania and exacerbates the whole situation. I know they're trying to provide people with useful information but I think it's doing more harm than good to list various symptoms that could indicate any number of ailments on the Internet. Because we are somehow programmed to download the worst possible scenario into our brains and convince ourselves that's our fate.

There's no logic to it, no reasoning. Just this overwhelming sense that our very survival is being threatened, assailed constantly with inexplicable bumps, bruises, marks and strange-looking poo.

I've vowed in the New Year to try and calm the f*ck down, you know, go with the flow. Every time I get any of these minor incidents checked out by a doctor, they turn out to be nothing. I should really learn to take a hint. All this time wasted being worried. Why?

Worry has to be the most useless emotion ever. It doesn't solve anything. It has no healing power. If anything, it just makes things worse because it puts your mind and body under stress. So why do we worry so much? About everything?

Are we so aware of life's fragility that we can't just ease into the flow of our lives? Is it the uncertainty? The not knowing when that final moment will come so we keep tripping ourselves up in the meantime? I get unusually obsessive about my health when I'm happy or under stress. I know, go figure.

If things get too good, if I feel I'm too content, then I have this strange compulsion to find some tiny little bodily flaw (a freckle, a cramp, a dull ache) and, with the amazing power of my imagination, turn it into something potentially fatal. Life is too short to be doing that kind of shit.

Why can't I just BE happy, or just BE stressed without a fabricated doomsday health prognosis hanging over me? I know resolutions don't usually work but I find this one particularly important: go with the flow. Stop fighting life. Because before you know it, it'll be over and you'll have spent most of it worrying about the end instead of actually living.

The melancholic artist

I recently went on vacation for two weeks in rural Maine where it was quite easy to not be distracted. No major urban centres for miles, just quiet and wilderness. I was pretty burned out and thought this was just what I needed. Sensory deprivation. I was very much looking forward to it.

And I did, for the most part, enjoy it. However, this reprieve also gave me an opportunity to realize that my incredibly hectic life was preventing me from fully living it. I was just skimming the surface.

While away, a certain melancholy came over me. I was sad. Sad about the radio silence following some meetings where I pitched a script of mine. They haven't said no, but they haven't said yes. It's like you're in limbo, trying to remain hopeful but finding it increasingly difficult the more time goes by.

As an artist, you learn to develop a thick skin, handle rejection and move on. But I hadn't really allowed myself to feel that sadness. I just tucked it away and kept running from day to day, steeped in busy work or mindless distraction. I wondered how many other emotions were buried within because I wouldn't give myself the time and space to feel them.

There were a few occasions during this vacation when I felt an urgent need to return home, thinking I might be missing something, surrounded by all this serenity and lack of demands on my time. I found the quiet disquieting.

When I returned home, however, I wanted to somehow preserve that spacious mental landscape I'd managed to cultivate, and not clutter it with constant activity and useless information, allowing myself to be bored, to be quiet, to sit with the fact that I'm not really inspired at the moment; I have no clear ideas for a new script. I'm ebbing instead of flowing.

I still feel melancholic but I'm not pushing it away. Sitting still doesn't mean I'm no longer an artist. It does mean dwelling in discomfort, trying to glean satisfaction from other aspects of my life, some of which I consider much less glamorous but no less important.

I guess it can't always be tremendous highs and fits of creative productivity. Sometimes, there's quiet and stillness and uncertainty.

Socializing is hard

Being an introvert can sometimes be challenging. I mean, I like being social and hangin' out with peeps and all but I can't do it continuously, and unlike extroverts who are energized when around people, being social depletes my energy reserves. And if I don't get regular periods of downtime, I start to lose my shit. As in locking myself in the bathroom for a while because it's quiet. A solitary confinement of sorts.

Chaos is my enemy. I know, sometimes I need to allow for spontaneity but chaos drives me a bit bonkers. Noise, people, unplanned events, etc... it all rattles my cage.

I sense introverts are not really celebrated or understood. Let's face it, it's an extrovert's paradise out there. People don't get people who would rather be quiet or alone for a while. It makes no sense to them.

I even get tired of socializing on Facebook and Twitter. I've got social media fatigue. At one point, I just need to shut off that constant bombardment of information, even if it's about people I care about. It's like an assault on my senses, and I must retreat to sensory deprivation.

I've got a copy of Susan Cain's book Quiet, which is dedicated to introverts, but have yet to read it. I've actually got a whole library of unread books which will probably take me a lifetime to get through. But I digress.

I'm actually tired now. Tired of writing. Tired of worrying. Tired of thinking. Must learn to do nothing.  

The space in between

You know when you get to that point, as an artist, where you have to let go and let the Universe do its bit? Where you need to relax after an intensely creative period but you're not sure how? It's like allowing yourself to do nothing is a crime against humanity, so soaked are we in our puritanical work ethic.

I'd like to permit myself to explore the art of doing nothing. Not forever, but for certain periods of time, amid those crazy creative spurts, the space in between. However, it's in those pauses that my fear of doing nothing emerges. If I do nothing, then I must be nothing. Except that being is enough. I don't do enough being. I do too much doing. I need to relax.

Here's a great quote by Paolo Coehlo: "If we are wasting time and enjoying ourselves, we are not wasting time." I wonder how much we miss because we're moving through life at breakneck speed, not stopping to "smell the flowers", as they say. I like to smell flowers.

But I need to train myself to smell flowers. It doesn't seem to come naturally. I used to be really good at doing nothing. I've somehow lost my edge when it comes to sloth. I now have an opportunity to revel in slowness, in frivolously wiling away the hours. If I do nothing, I'm still here so my theory doesn't hold true. By doing nothing, I'm still something. And by doing nothing, I'll be able to do something else, later on.

For us Westerners, doing nothing equates to lack of ambition, that revered quality that we must all possess if we are to be successful. But how do we measure success? Is time spent luxuriating in inactivity considered a shortcoming or a talent? I think it should be considered a talent since it can be quite difficult to truly give oneself over to idleness.

But once you do and drink the sweet nectar of slackness, it's a beautiful thing, a life skill that will come in handy for the rest of your life. Never underestimate the power of stillness, the yin to all our yang activity. (I'm actually trying to convince myself here as well.)

The writer's lament. Translation: pity party

Warning: the following is a writer's lament and therefore may be vomit-enducing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Apart from blogging, I'm also a playwright, an "emerging" playwright, meaning I haven't gotten that first professional production yet. I'm still plugging away, writing, networking, writing some more, working with some great dramaturgs, etc, etc...

I can go for long stretches where I'm focused, positive and productive. Then, I'll hit a snag. My confidence falters. My expectations aren't quite met. I'm not as brilliant as I thought. The script needs work and I have no idea where to go with it.

Added to this is the feeling that I'm an illegitimate writer until I have that first professional production, and put myself on the theatrical map or until I'm published; basically, until some outside entity says: "Yes, you are a writer".

Pouring hours into a project with an uncertain outcome can be daunting. The script may go nowhere. Or maybe someone will take interest in it a few years from now. You just don't know. But letting go of concrete results is a difficult thing.

And let's face it, artists have egos, and if they aren't fed, well, they don't starve. They gorge themselves on delusions of grandeur, only leading to further disappointment. I try to remind myself to get all The Secret on my ass, you know, visualize what I want, believe I deserve it, and that I'll receive it.

But sometimes, self-doubt creeps in, and it's quite insidious. It would have me believe the worst, that I won't amount to anything, that all this work is leading nowhere, that I'm really not that talented and no one is interested in working with me, or ever will be.

I sure as hell won't quit, because I know, with every fiber of my being, that it's my calling. It's what I was meant to do. It's what I love and what brings me joy. Writing is what puts me in "the zone", where time stands still. And I need to remind myself of those small, daily victories, those fortuitous "coincidences", all leading to one goal. I know the Universe is on my side. I just kinda wish I was.

Signs of burnout

Hearing Christmas music at Home Depot while buying a tree makes you cry.

Someone walking too slowly in front of you on a sidewalk with no room to pass makes you cry.

A repeat of Modern Family when you were expecting a new episode makes you cry.

Homicidal internal dialogue because you're convinced everyone but you is a complete idiot.

Fast and Furious 5 seems like a good movie to watch.

When mortality stops by to shatter our illusions

Earlier this week, a 33-year-old female cyclist was killed in a traffic accident about three blocks from where I work. When I heard of the accident, I was immediately taken aback. It happened so close to my office, on a street I've cycled and walked on numerous times to someone who could have been me. A thirty-something woman on her way to work on a bike.

A "ghost-bike", painted entirely in white, was set up in her honour where the accident happened, and bouquets of flowers have piled up on and around it. I followed this story in the news, from the initial report of the accident, to the identification of the victim, to the notification of family members, to details of her funeral service. I felt compelled to walk down that street and see the memorial for myself. Upon approaching that ghostly, silent, white bike, I turned off my iPod, and suppressed tears. 

Why do I care so much about a stranger? Someone I didn't even know? Because on some fundamental level, we're all the same, in this human condition, experiencing life and facing death.

I struggled with the fact that someone died, on this busy city street, and now, life hums along, as if nothing had happened. I thought about her family, who had seen her just the day before her death, Thanksgiving Day, and who probably assumed they would see her again. 

I think of her, getting up that morning, getting ready for the day ahead, brimming with life and possibilities, not knowing what was about to befall her. None of us do. But somehow we think we'll know, that death won't surprise us, that we'll be ready, that it'll be expected. But we're just deluding ourselves. We don't know anything for sure.

I think of what must have been her last moments, lying face down on hard asphalt after having been hit by a car door that unexpectedly opened directly in her path, throwing her  into oncoming traffic, where she was run over by another vehicle. She was surrounded by strangers who tried to help, lifting the car under which she was pinned, calling 911. 

I think of the person who opened that car door, in a moment of carelessness, and of the driver of the car that hit her, and how their lives are also forever altered. Perhaps there are worse things than death, like figuring out how to continue living after having killed someone, how to get past deafening guilt, how to forgive oneself. 

In the blink of an eye, everything can change.

Raging against the machine

You can only fake it for so long. Then, truth starts to seep out through small crevices or squeeze its way to the surface like a cheese bubble on freshly baked lasagna.

Sometimes, I just can't fake it anymore. I feel claustrophobic or bored senseless and I gotta break free. Free from the prison of repetition, narrow-mindedness, inane rules, someone else's control issues. Peculiarity breeds contempt, and contempt I have bred, all in the name of thinking outside the box.

Occasionally, my "wild" ideas clash with the status quo and the shit hits the fan. I want to scream. Others want to "keep me in line". I feel powerless, silenced, surrounded by incompetence and rigidity. What are people so f*cking afraid of?

It's all about balance, and in North America, we don't seem to get that concept. We worship at the altar of workaholism, our sense of self-worth wrapped up entirely in outward achievements and our ability to comply without asking for too much. 

We have a miriad of remote communication devices at our fingertips, yet some still perceive that we must be chained to desks, trapped within cubicle walls, seven or eight hours a day, five days a week. And if we have other ideas of what constitutes a well-balanced work day, we must be lazy or unmotivated. 

I don't mind being on the fringe and floating new concepts but I was reminded this week of what I'm up against: deeply entrenched, antiquated ideas of what managing people consists of and a complete lack of understanding of what generates productivity. 

But I stay the course because, for me, this isn't a sprint, it's a marathon. I know where I'm headed,  and I'm well on my way to getting there. This is just a stepping stone, and when you're thinking long-term, you gotta bear down when the shit storms hit, stay the course and play possum.

Time to wake up from our collective coma

It kinda feels like our world is coming apart at the seams, the "free market" showing its gaping flaws, the middle class getting restless and tired of being f*cked up the ass by corporations and governments. Across the globe, countries are buckling under the weight of their accumulated debt. Unfettered consumption, it seems, has a price.

We've been good little consumers, brainwashed, distracted and molded into walking corporate advertisements. And we willingly continue to do so. Until the shit hits our own, personal fan. Then we start to question, to re-evaluate. Do I really need that second car, that 27th pair of shoes, that 10th pair of jeans? Whose "ideal" am I trying to live up to? Mine? Or someone else's marketing ploy? 

If you buy this, you'll be "cool". Can't afford it? Use your credit card! You don't need to save anymore! Saving's for suckers. Buy it now! You know you want it. 

The question is: who's determining what's "cool"? Why can't we each have our own individual ideals of what constitutes the "cool" factor? I heard somewhere once that true fashion is each individual's expression of themselves. Pure fashion is not "trendy", it is unique to each individual. Trends have a homogeneous effect on us which is exactly what corporations want. Don't think for yourselves! Let someone else tell you how to dress and eat and behave. 

When did we give up our originality? Our independence? Our creativity? When did we start to believe that we weren't inherently enough, by our very existence? That we needed "stuff" to feel good about ourselves? That we had a right to judge or ridicule those who didn't have the "right" stuff?

We've become corporate automatons, sipping our Starbucks latté, oblivious to the destruction of the natural world and sound, democratic political systems. We're in a trance, and judging from the current climate of international financial affairs, we'll be forced to wake up soon.

The divine in me salutes the divine in you, unless you piss me off

I've written previously on my sister blog Sassy Stylings about my views on yogic/spiritual wisdom. I'm kind of on the fence about a lot of the concepts presented in yogic philosophy and what I learned during my teacher training.

I've read quite a few books on spirituality and I don't really know that they've made any difference in my life. I can actually recall some really great novels that had more impact. When I started practicing yoga, I was all gung ho and shit, wanting to go to every workshop and read every book, and balance every chakra. However, I wasn't about to give up eating meat, or drinking coffee or alcohol. I mean, I want to enjoy life.

These days, I'm very picky about which workshops I'll attend because frankly, most of the ones I've attended in the past were disappointing. There was no new knowledge or wisdom shared. It was actually kinda bogus. 

I've pretty much given up on "searching" for spiritual wisdom. When I go to a yoga workshop these days, I simply expect a great physical workout and some new ideas for my own classes. Anything beyond that is a bonus. Besides, spiritual "A-ha!" moments usually happen when I least expect them to, sometimes during a yoga practice, sometimes when I'm drunk. You just never know.

All this to say, click here to read a fabulously irreverent blog post about "spiritual wisdom" and its commodification. The videos at the end of the post are priceless. Do yourself a favour and don't skip over them.

Peace out.

I hate it when I'm right

So... It's been a few days since I've taken a break from playwriting and lo and behold, the shit wave has arrived and just keeps on coming. I've got some rage, people. Rage over my seemingly lost twenties where I wandered about, not sure what the hell to do with my life, working crap jobs, pursuing the odd theatre gig, and falling into a depression at age 29 that required therapeutic intervention. 

And now, I'm surrounded by incredibly focused, high-achieving youths who seem to know exactly what they want to do and exactly how to get there. If only I had had even a modicum of this kind of clarity at that age. 

I knew I was an artist very early on and my passion was, and still is, theatre. However, I totally lacked the self-confidence back then to continue pursuing this passion and did what we artists call "selling out".

And boy, did I pay the price. I dated the wrong people, worked jobs I loathed and was constantly ill. I hated my life. Now, my biggest enemy is regret. Having teenage stepchildren reminds me of my own youth, and when compared to theirs, mine was a train wreck. 

I mean, I was a high achiever academically speaking. I graduated with honours from both high school and university. But my professional life since then has been less than stellar, a constant underestimation on my part of what I'm truly capable of and now I'm stuck with the byproducts of mediocrity.

When I think of the hope and excitement for the future inherent in the university experience, it saddens me to feel rage at this point in my life over a patchwork career path that has failed miserably to live up to my expectations. However, I have no one to blame but myself. My current situation is a product of choices I made and if I'm not where I want to be, it's my own damn fault.

Unfortunately, that still doesn't make this bitter pill any easier to swallow. I guess I'm a late bloomer. I finally decided, I mean really dedicated myself, in my early thirties, to pursuing goals I'm truly passionate about. I'm trying to tell myself that becoming a professional artist will be easy despite the commonly held belief that it's excruciatingly difficult. I have to tell myself that. Otherwise, I'll go mad.

I must be ripe for spiritual growth because I'm sitting in a big, steaming pile of my own mental shit and choosing to stay for a while, even though it's thoroughly unpleasant. What's that saying we use all the time in yoga? Learning to sit with sensation. I'm sittin' all right.

Staring at a big, gaping abyss. I need a drink...

So... it's come to my attention that I'm creatively burned out. You see, I'm a playwright, and for the past few years, I've been writing non-stop but lately, I've had to admit to myself that I'm tired and I need a break. It's not like it would disrupt my income or anything since I'm still an emerging playwright looking to have my scripts produced and I do have other sources of income because I'm not writing full-time.

The caveat here is that my whole sense of self worth is wrapped up in my writing. If I take a break, what will happen to me? Will I become "ordinary"? And in becoming ordinary, will I simply disappear into the crowd, unnoticeable? 

My spiritual teacher pointed out to me that those assumptions are very arrogant, that I'm basically assuming that "ordinary" people aren't lovable. Taking that one step further, "ordinary" is simply a judgment I'm projecting onto others. As she put it, "there are no ordinary people". I just "think" there are and I don't want to be one of them for fear of not being loved and adored.

This is somewhat tragic because it means I'm constantly striving to stand out. Do you know how much energy that sucks up? And for what? What would happen if I just allowed myself to go with the flow, to coast for a while and enjoy the everyday little joys my life brings me instead of constantly hungering for and grasping for what will set me apart from others? Life would be so much easier if I could just "be". 

But I see an opportunity in my creative fatigue. I certainly won't stop blogging since that's fun and demands a different kind of creative energy, one I pretty much always have on hand. But writing plays, that's a little bit different, and sometimes the soil must lie fallow and I need to respect that. 

I must also remove "ordinary" from my vocabulary. It's a purely subjective notion that serves only to deter me from the immediate present. 

In my quest to avoid "ordinariness", I'm constantly projecting into the future. I mean, it's good to have goals and visualize what you want but it has to be balanced with a strong sense of "presence", of showing up for your actual life instead of disconnecting from it in favour of a fantasy self that may or may not come to pass.

I'm actually looking forward to this period of rest, of emptiness since it will leave room for other "stuff" to come up, perhaps some long held, negative beliefs keeping me from my own happiness. It's time for me to get out of my own way, and chill.

Evolving is f*cking hard work!

"Envy is hating what you want."

That's what my therapist/spiritual advisor told me a couple days ago when I went to see her about my nasty habit of comparing myself to others, feeling I always come up short, and descending into the depths of despair and uneasiness in my own skin. 

So I had to come to terms with the fact that what I envy in other people, what irritates me about them, are the very things I wish I had, some of which are characteristics that would contribute to my personal evolution if only I would allow myself to admit that I could learn from someone else instead of always having to "be right" or to blame. 

It was also pointed out to me that we keep engaging in hurtful thought patterns because, on some level, there's a payoff, we're addicted to it. It feeds some kind of need we have to shield ourselves from the heart of the matter, from change, from moving towards our higher selves. Because this would imply letting go of our ego and its needs. And that bitch is HUNGRY. If we don't feed the ego, it gets nasty, fast. 

I was told that to be truly free, thus happy, I had to let go of blame and of needing to be right, forever. It was acknowledged that this is no small task but one that can last a lifetime. I asked: "Well, how do I do this without becoming a doormat?" "You can still have boundaries" my therapist replies. "Instead of saying "You're wrong" or lashing out, say "When you do/say that, it makes me feel (insert appropriate word here)." 

And if someone is asserting, whether directly or indirectly, that they know more than we do, better than we do, etc..., let them be right. What do we care who's right or wrong if we're truly grounded in our core. Often, when we're asserting our "rightness", we're overcompensating for our own sense of insecurity. It's about us, not them. We stop listening and we're disconnected from the actual situation, interpreting it through our faulty filters.

So, I asked "How do I stop comparing myself to others? How do I stop hurting myself this way?" Her answer: "You're too focused inward. Start to focus outward; really listen to people. Get the facts." Be present. That way my "story" of not being good enough doesn't colour every interaction I have, thus creating space for me to learn from those around me how to be a better person, all the while knowing that I'm perfectly ok, right now.

Are chicks too busy navel gazing to have any real impact?

"We don't shape history by shaping our thighs." This fabulous quote was taken from the equally fabulous book Kiss My Tiara: How to Rule the World as a SmartMouth Goddess by Susan Jane Gilman. I decided to re-read this little gem over my holiday in Jamaica, and was glad I did. 

It was a reminder, a punch in the face of sorts, to get my head out of my ass, and not get caught up in the "beauty" race. At times, I have a tendency to obsessively compare myself to other women, always finding I come up short (I'm fat, I'm ugly, etc, etc...). Why do I expend vast amounts of energy in a vicious and never-ending cycle of envy instead of trying to figure out how to make a difference in the world?

The obvious answer is that I've been conditioned that way - to see other women as "competition" for "scarce" suitable male mates. Advertisers throw us in the ring against each other, knowing we'll buy whatever they're selling if it gets us a leg up on our sisters. 

I don't want to discount that men probably worry about this stuff too but not to the extent that we women fret about it. And what are men doing in the meantime? Ruling the world. They've got us so distracted with the latest anti-aging cream and Jimmy Choo shoes, we can't see the forest for the trees.

Our very identity has been constructed around being able to attract the opposite sex, as have large segments of the economy. Surely, there's more to us than that. 

Have we really taken any steps forward in this post-feminist era? American television is still littered with size zero actresses who bare no resemblance to the average American woman.

Carbohydrates have been vilified. 

Plastic surgery is rampant and only seems to be getting more and more popular. Sure, we laugh at Heidi Montag, but the real question is: why did a beautiful girl think she needed to completely alter her appearance to further her career?

Whose standards are we living by? Certainly not your average male's. Ask a man what he thinks is sexy, and you'll be surprised by his answer. It's usually the opposite of what's portrayed in the media.

What's really attractive to guys, in many cases, is a self-assured woman who can make them laugh. They want a best bud that they also get to f*ck, not some preening princess trying tirelessly to live up to impossible standards.

What is beauty if not the sound of laughter, the warmth of intimacy, the elation of achievement and a hair out of place now and then.