Raising the Bar, Breaking the Bench
Breaking the Bench? What?
I’ve been thinking about blogging lately. Thinking, but not doing.
Aside: Blogging is a very modern word….and honestly, it sounds weird. Nonsensical, Dr. Seuss-ish (or Dr. Who-ish) . I wonder about its longevity, wonder if it might be even more transient than “caboose”. My children didn’t know “caboose” til we explained it to them, and as we did, I watched their eyes become distant and uncomprehending, and I felt myself once again regarded as a relic for knowing the word. These same children, a few years younger, were actually surprised that peanut butter existed before I did, and once, one of my very young ones innocently asked me that great childhood cliche’: Were dinosaurs alive when I was little? Well of course, I told her. They still are, even now. Behold the Rooster, aka Tyrannosaurus UnRex. And he likes peanut butter too.
Anyway, thinking about blogging, and how recently I haven’t, and feeling sort of distressed by that, but coming up totally blank when I considered actually writing something, I reviewed my reasons for blogging (how New Yearly of me). My ambitions and fantasies, and how they were still just that…ambitions and fantasies. The realities of blogging have surprised me, often in pleasant ways…but in the end, as I reflected, I realized that I was no closer…not at all…to obtaining my more glamorous blogging dreams this year than I was last year. Perhaps I’d even lost ground. And thinking of anything to write seemed impossible, though I had promised to share much in the recent past.
Such as a story about (and photos of!) a painting that isn’t yet in my website gallery, but is instead hanging in my friend’s boutique, with a handful of other paintings (also mine) which aren’t selling either. While in every other respect, my friend’s boutique is a smashing hit.
Such as a running commentary on the adventures of getting a house ready for sale. There wasn’t much to say, and so far, I haven’t had the time to say it. Our house is five years new, built under our supervision and sometimes even by us. No need for renovation. We didn’t knock down walls or reinvent kitchen design. I just painted. And painted. And painted. And then I dejunked, and cleaned (am still cleaning…endlessly cleaning). My hands got chapped. I noticed more wrinkles on my face and less hair on my head. And after all that, we’ve only shown the house once so far. In between snow storms. To people who said, Lovely home, but we’d rather the great room was greater. Well, at least the fireplace smokes mostly up the chimney.
Such as….well, I can’t specifically remember other promises I made publicly here, though I’m haunted by the promises I privately made to myself.
Good news, though…the musing led to a little epiphany. I realized that I can relinquish the fantasies and ambitions. Or maybe…alter them without guilt. Instead of being driven by the fatuous daydream that somehow—miraculously—my sporadic art/design/writing/random green smoothie recipe will be “discovered” and deemed incalculably valuable by the masses (or at least Oprah? this, by the way, is why I used to sing in the shower…I superstitiously believed in impossible discoveries), instead, I can be motivated—no, empowered—by my more intrinsic delight in creating. Whatever. Houses, clothes, paintings, words.
I hope I remember this. To disregard the seductive shower siren’s song and listen instead to Truth Inherent’s resonating chords. I would write that on a 3X5 and put it on my mirror, but I’m paring down on clutter, trying to sell the house.
Meanwhile… I really should elucidate on Breaking The Bench and Raising The Bar. I admit the relevance to this post is a little shaky…
On second thought, I’ve decided not to explain after all. Titles are so hard to come up with. The expectation that they always make sense seems a little unrealistic to me. Also, I don’t think photos need to be relevant every time either. However. Notice that while the bench sags a great deal, it never quite breaks.
(Note: Frank and I do look happy here. Even though we’re freezing, and awkward—he a little Asperger’s, me a little neurotic. An occasional puzzle piece lost in translation. By and large, we really are happy together…though sometimes we negotiate happiness through astonishing discomfort. Looking back (we’ve been married 24 years), I’m reluctantly…no, profoundly grateful for the uncomfortable moments. They are the price we paid for the sweet ones.)
(Also Note: I’m still hoping to keep at least some of those public promises, and even a few private ones. You will see the painting. And I will publish a house tour, and musings about home design, and real estate agents. Maybe even another green smoothie recipe).