Hello dear sweet blogland. How sweet to feel the need to visit you again!
I wish I could say I’ve had the need to blog, but I haven’t. For one, Twitter keeps me pretty busy, and at 140 characters per go, it doesn’t exact much out of me. Lazy, yes.
After graduate school ended –and thank goodness it did– I’ve spent a few months spinning my wheels and trying to find my north again. So far, not too bad.
Sometimes, I envy the dedication and vim that others have with their blogging. They are so productive, in a way I know I could never be. They showcase great ideas, big projects, beautiful art and photography.
Me? I will share some photos on here when I wrap my little spiel up, which will be nice (go ahead and skip if you’re so inclined). But most importantly, I will share with you my resolution: other than stupidly giving up coffee for a whole month because I am a little nuts, I resolve to do.
Doing is terrifying. Just writing the word, “do” sends an icy trickle down my spine and makes my breath get stuck somewhere between my neck and my chest, as if I’d suddenly developed panic-induced asthma.
Doing means that you have to stand for something, and push it out into the world for people to complain that it’s not funny enough, or well-written enough. Or that it could be cropped a little more, or less. Or maybe the framing is off? Or that the clash of patterns really looks a bit odd, and wouldn’t it be nicer if the lines were a little cleaner?
Doing, as I just said, is terrifying. And although living in terror is no way to live, the terror of not doing and feeling all the doing piling up in your head and not letting you sleep at night is exhausting. So you fight the terror. So you do, and you push out into the world and let people complain about the lack of humor or symmetry. You invite the Monday morning quarterbacks in your life over for a cup of coffee (or tea, if you stupidly decided to go sans coffee this month) and let them hash it out and let them get that flag on your play, before they too end up with panic-induced asthmatic breath.
But guess what? The Monday morning quarterbacks weren’t in the game. From informal observation alone, I can tell you they probably can’t toss a football farther than a few feet, even if unimpeded by a 2-ton defensive line.
And the ones who complain about your work are busy complaining about your work and therefore not doing their own (you’ll get a word in when they do).
In the meantime, you do.
I’ve had a magical new year so far.
“Magical” is, bizarrely, a word I overuse. Mostly I feel I overuse it because life is magical. How does breathing happen? How do people fall in love? How do brains develop? How can snow be the most beautiful and maddening thing you’ll ever experience? It’s all magic. Incidentally, the word “magic” is related to “magi,” another word to refer to the Wise Men or the Kings who came from far away to visit baby Jesus. So, magic is related to wisdom, and to being regal, which is not too shabby a definition.
Life is full of crap and deicing-salt-on-your-lips, dog-poop-in-your-trash-can kind of moments. Those moments have little to no magic, although I have tried finding the gilt and beauty in garbage disposal. I mean, having new trash cans delivered in late summer was pretty exciting, but not quite magical. That new plastic smell was as close as we got.
So it’s with much excitement and light trepidation that I can call this year’s beginning “magical.” It started with a little note from someone who makes me smile, just a couple of minutes past midnight. It continued with an early-morning train ride with the two best boys and the best mother ever.
And kept going in a city that is magic.
So now, I do: I share with you my #NewYorkNewYear15. And I hope you do like it. (But if you don’t, tant pis.)