For the last ten minutes, I’ve sat staring at this screen wondering where to start. It’s not that I have nothing to share, it’s that there’s a lot of little things running through my head and I can’t pick one. I read too much of everything, watch too many videos, sign up for classes promoted in emails I should delete but don’t and the result is, well, this:
Billy Joel in a recent interview: “I hate the writing process. But I love it when I’m done.” Me too! Something in common with The Piano Man!
Curtsy lunges, yes! And they’re so cute! Definitely adding those to my exercise regimen.
A virtual humor and standup comedy class from the Erma Bombeck Workshop for only $199? Fuck my nails and toes and brows that are knitting together forming a wrap I can wear should I ever find myself in Florida and freezing AGAIN, I’m taking that class today! Today! While Mr. Happy is at work. While Mr. Rugby makes his way to New Jersey. And maybe while I’m doing those curtsy lunges!
I’m all over the place this morning. Ok, that’s not true. I’m all over the place lots of mornings. And many afternoons. By evening, my all-over-the-place-ness has exhausted me and I’m ready to curl up on the couch.
My point is, I can stare at this screen while my head explodes with all the crap I’ve packed it with or I can “start where I am.” (Thank you Pema Chodron and my dear friend, Ellen.)
(https://www.amazon.com/Start-Where-You-Are-Compassionate/dp/1570628394)
The starting where I am stuff started (wow, excellent writing there Suz), last Saturday. After I wrote to @Dolphine, crying and disgusted with myself. Dreading and having no energy for The Long Road Back. Not knowing where or how to start.
That’s when Pema popped into my head, wearing huge black Doc Martens and threatening – in the way only diminutive Buddhist nuns can do – to kick my ass with them.
And now you’re thinking, wow, Susan’s head is filled with all this shit she reads and watches and should delete from her in box and she STILL has room for fantasy encounters with people she’s never met. Why has no one hospitalized her yet?
So Pema shows up and says, “Stop your sniveling. You’re a grown ass woman. Pick up your weights. Twelve pounds? Who are you kidding? Where are the eights? We don’t want Rob coming in to find you sprawled on the floor in cardiac arrest, do we? The man’s put up with enough!” And finally, “Start where you are, fatty.”
Ok, she didn’t say fatty. But, you know.
Yes. The starting started then. And it’s continued.
@Dolphine responded to my message. Her note was lovely and supportive, just as I hoped it would be, and she closed by suggesting we “get on a call.” Sure she did. Coaching is how the woman keeps herself in the absolutely stunning clothes SHE CAN WEAR (not thinking about my closet…not thinking about my closet…). That’s no surprise. But this is.
I said Yes. I booked a call with her. I never “get on a call.” That irks me almost as much as “I’ll be out of pocket this afternoon” and all those other horrific bullshit phrases people use at work. And maybe at home. Can you imagine? “No little Charlotte, mommy can’t take you to the park later. I’ll be out of pocket all afternoon.”
Poor little Charlotte! Left wondering why her mommy is stuck in her pocket in the first place! Can you imagine her in school when the teacher asks what everyone did over the weekend? “I wanted to go to the park, but we couldn’t because mommy said she’d be out of pocket.”
But I digress.
I made an appointment to speak with her (see how nice that sounds?). It’s this coming Monday. I actually can’t wait. I swoon over Julia Linn Olson – that’s her real name, check her out – like some people swoon over Taylor Swift.
All this starting. I should be tired but I’m not. I even, dare I tell you?, broke open Mr. Happy’s book of sheet music yesterday and attempted, and I do mean attempted, to play the piano. I was awful. The piano sounds awful. (It’s called tuning, Suz. Have it done.) Together we pounded out pure torture.
Mr. Rugby: Is that a real song or are you just, like, trying to break it?
Mr. Happy: Mom, we should call that guy. You’ll, I mean, it’ll sound better then.
Mr. Rugby: Don’t give her any ideas. This one’s bad enough.
Mr. Happy to Mr. Rugby: You’re mean.
Mr. Rugby, shaking his head: THIS is mean.
They disappear together. And reappear together. Ten minutes later.
Mr. Rugby: Jailbird and I are going to Chick-fil-A. He can do that, right?
Me, not taking my eyes off the page of music I’m swearing at: If you’re with him, and you go through the drive-thru, and come right back.
Both boys: We have to come RIGHT BACK?
My dad always said, learn to play an instrument. It’s something no one can ever take away from you. That might be so, but I do believe the people in this house are trying to take it away from me. Just this morning I discovered Mr. Rugby laying in bed, scrolling Facebook Marketplace, and moaning, “You can’t give this shit away!”
The joke’s on him. I mean, we all know that the only way to get rid of a piano IS to give it away.
Mr. Happy just left for work. Mr. Rugby is gathering his things to go to New Jersey. When that door slams, I’m playing that piano. After I do my curtsy lunges. And take that Erma class.
I’m not sure what I’ll (try to) play though. I’m still thinking about it. But please notice I didn’t say “I’m not sure where I’ll start.” I’m not making that mistake again.
Pema’s still got those boots. And I don’t want her kicking my butt.
Feeling renewed and hopeful is good, and bad. Good, because I’m really writing for the first time in ages. Bad, because I will probably post too frequently. Apologies in advance for inundating you. Please don’t feel like to have to “keep up.” This stuff lives out here. Read it if, and when, you want.
And, before I forget, my deepest thanks for your notes. These two in particular made me cry:
"I love you because you are all of us."
“Keep writing. It matters.”
Thank you for your faith in me.
Until next time…
Susan xo
Love this. Where you are is where you’re supposed to be… for now💕