The Fig of Destiny

I could be on the precipice of something huge. I could.

I see it on the other side of the frosted glass. I can make out the shape, yet can’t discern any of the details...but my God, can I feel it. And it feels like joy. Not happiness, which is fleeting, but pure unadulterated joy. It feels like what I’ve been searching for, but frustratingly have been unable to sufficiently name. Why can’t I make out more than just the silhouette so I can at least know what to look for, where to start? It feels like some kind of sick joke, unfair and cruel. So close and yet so far. I keep staring and the shape keeps shifting, moving as I move. I’m left guessing.

I’ve taken the path of least resistance for my entire life, motivated by taking up the least amount of space and attention, born from an aversion to being really seen and a perfectionist’s fear of failure. I’m palatable, I’m agreeable, I’m what I’m supposed to be. I’m a chameleon, with a waning sense of self, who deals in amalgams of personality traits and mirrored social cues. But I need to find what’s under all these layers. What’s at the core of me.  

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Ushering in the Era of 'No'

No.

Who knew this monosyllabic, rudimentary, almost-nothing of a word could be so powerful?

Who knew it’s very utterance could be seen as resistance? As revolutionary?

Who knew that despite it being one of the very first words I’d learn how to say, that it’d also be one I’d spend my whole life trying to really understand and master?

Not me.

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What's for Dinner?

I’ve been on a bit of a spiritual, self actualization journey the last few months- like, I started Googling yoga classes in my area, have been talking about the universe like an old friend and find myself wanting to buy a gaggle of healing crystals. So much of a journey, in fact, that every interaction or occurrence in my life has started to feel like it could hold a little extra significance. A benign comment could transform into a revolutionary idea. A serendipitous coincidence? Must be the result of some positive manifestation.

As I was cooking dinner tonight, I realized the amount of hours in a day that I spend on solely traditionally wife like duties was disproportionately high in relation to how I spend the rest of my time. In my household, my labor accounts for roughly 95% (scientifically* rendered, of course) of the total household labor and a disproportionate amount of the financial labor as well. I am responsible for every single cleaning task imaginable in a household of two, save for the taking out of the trashcans and the occasional load of laundry (usually when my husband needs something specific washed in a specific time frame). I am the only one who cooks, except for the infrequent BBQing that’s just begun now that the temperatures have warmed. When a plate is served, it’s me who cleans it, and puts it away. When the dog’s registration is due, a doctor's appointment needs to be made, or there’s a trip to be planned, I know it’s mine to take care of. I suppose this is natural in a society that peddles toy vacuums and kitchen sets to little girls, and later, requires us to do it all with a smile on our faces. In any case, while none of this was necessarily news to me, there was a newfound weight to this realization that was kind of jarring.

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Please Allow Me to (Re)Introduce Myself

Hey. 

I know it's been a while. I'm not sure why I do that. 

Well, I kind of do. It mostly has to do with discipline and fear. Which seem like odd things to associate with what writing is to many people, which is a passion or a creative urging, to express yourself and attempt to be understood. At first, this seemed to signal to me that writing was not something I was passionate about. It must have been a flash in my Gemini pan, or for another season, or perhaps not at all, because I could not find the discipline to write consistently to save my life. I must not be that into it.  It can't be my passion. 

Only every time I day dreamed about what my ideal life would look like, writing seemed to feature as a constant theme. In what capacity was far less clear, which precipitated the fear of not knowing what the hell 'writing as constant theme' meant, and how it was going to pay the bills. More precisely, when I'm talking about the fear associated with writing, for me there is only one that keeps me up at night: be authentic or be nothing at all. Be naked and vulnerable and on display or be stagnant, unchanging. Be the eventual subject of criticism, or simply left behind. This terrifies me. This terrifies me so much that my brain has seemingly found a way to self protect-- declare said day dream a fraud, that writing is more a thing of the past than a foreshadowing of the future. 

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