Independence Day

Not really a day. Sometimes just a moment. Or a pitstop at a cafe. Or a stroll through the city.

Something about breathing feels especially good and clean and I decide to believe everything that I hope is true about me. Just like that - I take this magnificently liberating leap of faith. And it's magic. I'm magical. I smile and it feels beautiful. My smile has power - the power to make other people smile. I am connected to everyone.

Ideas come. And I give them a voice. And they are received like good ideas. I am inspired. And part of me is surprised and delighted that I can inspire as well. (The other part it just delighted and not so surprised). In these moments, it's easy to speak. My sentences don't trail off. My thoughts are drenched in love and goodwill and I'm shameless about sharing them. If only everyone could feel this good, if only for a moment.

I haven't figured out how to hold onto that feeling... that "allowing". But I think it starts with the breathing.

I'm going to practice.

I'd like to unleash that magic everyday.

Is all about the journey... blah, blah, blah...

Ok, so I've finished my first draft of my first screenplay. Hurray!

... And sent it out into a universe.
Or at least a couple of people who aren't related to me...
And received some constructive criticism...


Huh...


So... I'm really going to have to go back and rewrite this thing.
No critical acclaim.
No big spontaneous checks.
Definitely no bidding wars. (Does that even happen? I don't actually know)

Turns out I'm going to have to develop skills and learn this craft like everyone else.
(It's always the "like everyone else" part that's particularly hard to swallow)
It shouldn't be this surprising that I don't innately have a knack for writing an award-winning screenplay the first time around. Ok, truthfully, I was going for an independent cult-type film... I thought that was being a little more realistic.
But, no. Lo and behold, I'm stumbling up the learning curve.

Ok, so I knew this already. But it's always sad when a fantasy dies. Or, in my case, when it must be shelfed until round 2.

Spewing forth

I want to write. I do. But it's all stuck and jumbled. My thoughts are like those delicate necklaces found tangled at the bottom of jewelry boxes - all knotty and twisted and very, very fragile. Unraveling them requires patience and focus, and I have that in short supply.

I want it to flow through me gracefully, eloquently. Instead, everything comes forth in fits and spasms - violent eruptions and hiccups and belches. There are some kinks I have yet to work out.

I wouldn't mind so much if they weren't interrupted by so many long sighs and false starts.

I had fantasized that writing would one day reveal my inner genius. Throngs of fans. A weekly column. Publishers and producers banging down my door. World leaders seeking my advice. But the genius is evasive. To date, I have only confronted the slacker, the neurotic, the coward and the critic. The critic is by far the biggest bitch.

I think she's the one behind all this...

That moment

... in a film when the protagonist walks off the airplane or steps out into a beautiful new scary life. When things are going to change forever. Usually in some remote and unfamiliar part of the world.

I love that moment. I'm craving one of those.

Can I order one of those without the ugly divorce or the horrible tragedy? I'd like to take my husband and kids with me.

Cheers.

I want my Mommy!

I've been hearing this a lot lately. Usually from an overtired and very stubborn 2 year old... in the loud, whine of an overtired and very stubborn 2 year old. And after 100 rounds or so I find myself wanting to tune it out.

I should be more empathetic. I know just how she feels. I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed. And whatever it is, I just want to be rescued from it. Scooped up and hugged and fed and talked to sweetly until I'm lulled to sleep. I want my Mommy, too. And the frustration of not having access to her... well, I guess I can understand that relentless whining after all.

My mom has been gone for 13 years next month. Cancer. That vulture of a disease. It feels like a lifetime ago. And it feels like last week. And, when I really let myself think about how much I'd like to see her, there isn't enough air. The idea of "never" suffocates me, so I can't spend much time contemplating the passage of time. It's a concept that only creeps in and occurs to me, often as a jarring rediscovery.

The winter is abundant with such crippling realizations. The crisp air or the dirty, crusty remains of snow... a song on the radio... something, anything, can set me off and it all comes flooding back to me. I am overwhelmed by the sick flutter in my stomach as I force the words I hate out of my mouth: "Dad, you have to sign the DNR." I can feel my throat swelling shut, resisting the urge to cry as I brace myself and prepare to set my mother free. Choosing every word carefully in case it's the last one she hears. The blue vinyl chairs and the hospital smells. And wondering if the little vials of morphine that we learned to administer at home might give me some relief from the suffering I was seeing.

These memories can stab me at any time without warning. 13 years later I have to remind myself that it's real. And the realization is always unwelcome. My reaction to it never changes. "I want my Mommy." But I continue to visit even the most agonizing of these memories. Because they're of my Mom. Even in the most painful moments, she was there and she loved me.

I always think that after an experience like mine, a person would be forever changed. Deeper. Kinder. Patient, at least. But it doesn't work that way. You still have to work to become the person you'd like to be. The lessons are there, but it's on us to apply them. It seems you can feel how unbearable it is to lose someone you love so much and still take your other loved ones for granted. You can witness how one moment can change the course of the universe and then waste entire days on laziness or anger. And how many times have I strayed onto the path of least resistance? Human nature is absurd to me that way.

So, I'm reviewing the lessons here. They were so painfully acquired - I'd be a fool to waste them.

A mother's love is critical. 40 years in I still need to tap into it to get through a difficult day. And it's my turn. My privilege. Each day with these three little inspirations is a gift. There are smiles to be made. Games to be played. Memories to create. Love to share and absorb and infuse and radiate. So that relentless cry of "I want my mommy"... that is my chance. My opportunity to be there. Here.