I have been developing or mastering this somewhat
new quirk or idiosyncrasy over the past couple of years. I imagine it could be
the start of agoraphobia or some other neurosis. Maybe it’s the fear of not wanting to admit a
certain level of defiance or willfulness. The fear of leaving, or the fear of
continuing on in a place, or job, or life that no longer quite fits. And I’m not quite sure if it is too large or
too small or if the cut of the cloth is no longer comfortable. I dawdle. I dawdle in an effort to not move forward. And maybe it is true that I have always been one who dawdles. And one who does a million things at once. In the past being "responsible"
trumped being a dawdler and having a million things to do kept the dawdling from slowing me down. I see this
slipping of late or loosening perhaps. And dawdling, seems the least of my troubles...
I discovered this new and not improved
feature, or maybe just admitted to it, while attending a writing workshop I signed
up for at the local new-age, crunchy feeling camp. (Those were descriptors overheard, they are
not my own, but they fit.)
I was excited about this opportunity. Leading up to it, anyway. And then
I went away for the summer and after about 6 weeks, I had just found my groove
and fell into a laid back summer mojo of sorts.
I like to believe that of myself, laid back and all mojo like, but I can
muster up a great deal of angst and high alertness and a buzzing electricity of
attempting to figure just about
everything out. So getting into
that summer groove felt pretty fine and leaving it to go to a writing workshop
suddenly felt not even close to fine.
But I had registered. And paid.
And the new age crunchy camp is a place that I have wanted to go for
quite some time, and the authors that were presenting and sharing were of the
highest caliber, and I was absolutely charged up about one in particular. So I made my way back home to attend. And this is where I noticed that quirk of
mine showing itself off. Waving it’s
freak flag quite exuberantly even.
I do stuff. Any stuff.
Stuff that doesn’t need to be done, while ignoring the stuff that needs
to be done just so that I can slow myself down and pretend it’s not related to
not wanting to go somewhere or do something else. I go for a
power walk. An hour long power
walk. An hour and fifteen minutes before
I have to go to or do those somewheres and somethings, I do this.
And then, naturally I have to shower before I go. And then I have to find clothes. And because I didn’t exactly know what to wear
to a somewhere that included a writing workshop at a new-age camp I have to try
on a few different bohemian type outfits.
Yes, outfits. I still use that
term even though nothing that I wear is an “outfit”, as much as it is a get
up. As in “are you really going to wear
that get-up?” And then after I find my
get-up inspired outfit I have to straighten my hair. My hair is fairly straight after blow drying
it, but there is that one piece that no one in the entire crunchy new age
bohemian camp will notice or care about but it is suddenly worth every extra minute
I can dedicate to stall my leaving. I
might start researching something at this point. Like Indian Mounds in Ohio for instance, or
maybe even the population of Thermopolis, Wyoming, or maybe I’ll register for
my next course at Marist. At one point I
notice I am arranging books on my shelf, because well that was suddenly
important, but it breaks my spell and sends me packing, because I can’t even
pretend that was important. And by now I
am sent packing 10 or maybe 30 minutes later than I should be heading off to
join an unfamiliar pack. But my hair is
straight and my get up is geared up for going on.
I decide as I drive, I’m not going to
rush which allows for more time to examine how much it is plain old stupid to
be going to this workshop. And then all
the snot-nosed and mighty mouthed repertoire from that inner 9 year
old-scrappy-girl-from-Queens self starts flying around my scrappy 51 year old
woman self. Who actually ever gets to be a successful writer from going to a
workshop? It’s going to be such a waste
of time! I can’t believe I left my
summer mojo fine feeling of inner calm to come to this idiotic class. I’m throwing myself into another situation
that will make me feel alone. Shy. Awkward. Not fitting in. I will have to
count my way into saying hello. (This
is what I do when those feelings overwhelm me, “OK you can do it! On the count
of 3 say hello!) 1…2….3….. And right here at this point some inaudible mumble
comes from my mouth usually encapsulated in a saliva bubble just for the glory
of greater impact and all out pizzazz. I
build up all of this angst into a beehive of fright and weave my invisible, but
palpable barbed wire shawl around myself and settle into my hole of funkdom
that also doesn’t quite fit.
Taking the back roads to the camp, or the
famed holistic learning center, as it
were, along the meandering roads of Rhinebeck reminds me how much I love this idyllic
landscape in which I call home. And
because it is a single-laned meandering road, I have to attend to the landscape
instead of my gurgling angst. It
helps. By the time I pull in to the
parking lot and am directed by the kind faced, amiable parking attendant I have released
some of my harrumphing piss-poor nature.
I have to check-in and find out where to begin this new and tentative journey. The registrar has a knowing smile and goes
through the check-in procedures thoroughly, showing me a map and pointing out
which buildings house which activities.
Dining Hall. Café. Lakeside
Theater. Main Hall for Yoga. Movement Studio. Meditation garden. Sanctuary. Labyrinth? (Uh oh!) Lake. Beach. Kayaks. My agoraphobic type predisposition is loosening it's grip. I have fifteen minutes for dinner before my
first workshop begins. (Maybe I am not
attempting to stall…..maybe I just love the adrenalin pumped rush of deadlines
and demands!)
When I find my seat, not in the front
row, too eager, let’s see…here in the second row, two seats in, perfect! I
sit. And loosely drape my invisible
barbed wire shawl around me. I’m not
looking to bleed or harm others…but I need a little space between my saliva
bubbles and the red hot rash of a social anxiety that separates me from, let’s
see… hmmmmmm? (long pause and affected chin rubbing) JUST
ABOUT EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WHOLE STINKING WORLD!!! I can feel these feelings creeping up my
veins and I have to soothe every one of them back down. Into place. Only I don’t particularly like
that there are places reserved for these feelings.
I would prefer to soothe them out for good. Evict them from totum meum esse. Why don’t I
have a place for gregarious doyenne? How
‘bout a slot for oozing with confidence man-magnet?
I recently tried to sell my soul to the
devil in exchange for a man made to order and exclusively for me, but maybe I
didn’t make that post public and just shared it with my “friends”, as in Facebook
friends. Surely the devil and Facebook
are very close bedfellows? I figure at this point and over the past few years
selling my soul to the devil would seem a walk in the park…or maybe I am
already making life-time installments on selling my soul the last time
around….that would explain a great deal about the past few years and it makes more
sense than anything I have been able to come up with. Life sure is complicated, do I need to make
saliva bubbles too? OK fine I
digress….this is not about me and a man.
This is about me and the whole stinking world! Or me and my summer mojo. Or me and feeling at ease. It might even be about me and writing and me
amongst writers.
I ease into my seat. I breathe.
I let go a little. I soothe all
those places that need soothing. I loosen
up my barbed wired shawl. I do
stuff. All that stuff that soon won’t
need to be done. Shuffle through papers
in my journal. Begin doodling. Begin writing, or at least jotting. Jotting is much more in line with closer to
fine, don’t you agree? The hall fills, the writers on the panel
take their places. Introductions are
made. Discussions emerge. Questions are asked and answered. Banter gives rise. People, like me, reveal themselves. Just
like me? Close enough to find
comfort and ease. There is in this place
an openness, authenticity, a creative force, an energy that smells familiar and
new at the same time. Like a fragrant
herb that you can’t quite identify but you know you’ve tasted of it
before. And I did just walk gently
through the garden path to get here stimulating the calming properties of
passionflower, or lavender, or the minty tinged flavor of lemon balm….I guess hippie, crunchy, new age, love camp does have it's place. Or maybe I have found another place that might fit me.
The evening workshop ends and I am
smiling. Relaxed, but inspired to go
home and write. To wake early and return
promptly to hear more from these great authors, kindred spirits, people like
me. Ordinarily Extraordinary. Sharing a common voice of adversity met, challenges that knock us to our
knees, friends and inner strength that restore us, humor that sweetens the
bitter edges of our lives, at once universal and entirely unique, us.
I think I will leave my shawl in the car. If you happen to see one of my bubbles encapsulating a mumbled hello,
smile and recall your youth, when you might have blown bubbles and caught them in a clap of “I
got it!” Twirl around in this magic
circle of joy. The will to live fully in
spite of a few hitches and quirks is much more the mojo of me, but please don't clap too hard around my mubbled hello bubble.
The next morning I walk in with much more ease. As I am headed to my seat, I am greeted with a smile as wide as the Rock of Cashel. And It might well be a long way to Tipperary, but there before me as far as the eye can see, OK fine, I'm all pumped up and trying too hard...Anyway...I walk in and Malachy McCourt says to me, "Good Morning, Ginger" just like that! Me! That scrappy little piss poor Irish American from Woodside, Queens. The very same scrapper that said all her Hail Mary's with an Irish Brogue and the devil in her eye in chorus with her classmates (none of which had a brogue) when Father Ryan came into our class and lead us in prayer. (Father Ryan and my grandmother surely had the brogue working overtime and I had the devil in me so what the hell, I figured, I might as well combine the two and so I prayed aloud in class with a brogue of my own and a sparkle in my eye.)
Well, Jesus H Christ, Sweet Mary, Mother of God, and St. Joseph what the hell was I belly-aching about? Later that day, I find myself talking to Alphie McCourt. He sizes me up a bit. Giving me that look. (if you are Irish you know that look that I refer to, if you are not, it is that one eye half closed, not pleased, but also uncertain, with a very narrow window of time wanting to get certain look) Maybe wondering what the hell sort of get up am I wearing. Maybe just wondering if that seitan or the quinoa he ate in the veganish dining hall was going to settle into his bowels without discord, or instead rip them wide open. But I am of the thinking he isn't quite certain what to make of me, and certainly there is room for me to be wrong.
As much as I am suddenly enjoying this weekend, I am not exactly cured of my quirks and tendencies toward DON'T LOOK AT ME I'M NERVOUS IN THE WORLD with an equal amount of WHY CANT YOU MAKE IT EASIER FOR ME BY SAYING SOMETHING NICE??!! I operate in fits and starts most often. He asks if I have the Irish in me. What an exquisite charmer. Do I have the Irish in me? Music to my elf-like protruding ears. And now that other me rises up. Ready to sing a rebel song and slap him on the back and show him my Irish. I manage to blurt an eager "Yes!" without showing off the steps I learned from watching my sister receive Irish jig lessons before they were called Irish step dancing lessons. After asking if I've been there, just to make sure I'm dedicated to the cause and the customs and the commonalities we share he goes on to tell me the meaning of my last name, and tips on finding information about my ancestors. Turning beat red and growing bashful and donning the barbed wire shawl seem to be among some of those common traits of the Irish and just about anyone else at one time or another.
After listening to Frances Lefkowitz, Cheryl Strayed, and Marta Szabo, and those charming sweet little sons of Angela, I am enthralled and humbled and overjoyed to be in this place in this time among these crafters of words and speakers of truth, stretched perhaps a tad by some, but shared and spoken so eloquently, raw, and unapologetically by all. Writers. We.
I wonder how much I could get for my invisible barbed wire shawl on ebay or Craigs List.....
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